


In the Ashes

by The_Librarian



Series: Transformers: This Is How It All Began [4]
Category: Transformers (Marvel Generation One), Transformers Generation One
Genre: Aftermath, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Autobots - Freeform, Cybertron, Decepticons - Freeform, Gen, Iacon, Nuclear Warfare, Politics, Pre-Canon, Pre-War, Prequel, Relief effort, Survivors, Tarn - Freeform, Vos - Freeform, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 18:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 58,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1909770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Librarian/pseuds/The_Librarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vos and Tarn have fallen, destroying each other in a final, mad act of mutual hatred. Now a desperate race begins to reach any and all survivors. But as the shock waves spread across Cybertron, it soon becomes clear that nothing will ever be the same again. Political power shifts, the fuel crisis deepens, lives are ruined. And in the midst of it all is the one mech who might be able to bring order back to the region: Megatron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After-image

**Author's Note:**

> This follows on from 'Twilight of a Golden Age', 'The Last Days' and 'Mutually Assured Destruction', so for heaven's sake go read those first or you'll have no idea what's going on. I know I wouldn't if I hadn't written them already.
> 
> As per my previously establish standard (see, told you you'd have no idea what's what), I'm using 'pre-war' names for a lot of people in this story, based on a naming convention of my own devising.
> 
> I'd once again like to give huge thanks DragonTail and The_Dancing_Walrus for their proof reading skills.
> 
> Now - over to you, dear reader.

**Qosho** **Region**

**Cybertron**

Within three cycles, the cities of Tarn and Vos had ceased to exist. When the light from the explosions cleared, what was left lay shattered and broken around the rims of the craters, wreathed in smoke and dust billowing up from the gaping wounds in the landscape. Along the Vosian coast, the heat boiled the Iron Sea to vapour. In Tarn's industrial out-lands, factories popped as cleanly as overheated rivets. Munitions, armed and ready for a pitched battle that never came, combusted in their silos, opening fresh chasms in the scorched ground.

Everywhere, people died. Those caught at ground zero were gone in an instant. Those unfortunate enough to be just outside the initial blasts faded more slowly, becoming their own funeral pyres as their fuel ignited in their bodies. Thousands more were left crushed under the wreckage, their lives seeping away as their consciousnesses shattered and distorted with the damage. By the time the echoes of the detonating photon bombs reached Tagen, five million people had been snuffed out. By the time the shock waves reached Kalis, another three hundred thousand had joined them in the Allspark.

The ground would not cool properly for days. From space, the glow of molten metal was a double blotch smeared across three continental plates. They would be distorted forever, marking a million stellar-cycles of history more indelibly than any tower or orbital hub.

Vos had been a jewel, a hymn to flight. Tarn had been a machine, a search for scientific perfection. In their time, they had been among the greatest cities ever built. Their enmity had shaped the world around them. Who would finally emerge from the inevitable conflict had been a topic of speculation and debate for mega-cycles.

Now the academics finally had their answer.  
 

* * *

**Council Chamber**

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

The projectors filled the air above the circle with an unrelenting stream of devastation. Every sky-spy that got through the electromagnetic storm revealed some fresh scene of horror until it became impossible to distinguish the two cities any more and they threatened to blur into a single, immense vision of the Pit itself.

Xaaron let his optics fall. On opposite sides of the Council, the Emirates of Vos and Tarn watched their cities burn, their endless arguments finally rendered utterly meaningless.

“Vosian scum!” Hacaano howled, surging from his seat, transforming to tank mode as he came.

“Barbarians!” Graviitus rose into the air, thrusters blazing, wings snapping open.

Sentinel Prime's spear struck the floor like thunder. “SILENCE!”

They looked up at him in shock and dread, their anger crumbling into hopelessness. The spear slashed downwards in an arc of crackling light. “BEGONE FROM THIS PLACE! For the slaughter they have unleashed on their own citizens, Vos and Tarn are forever expelled from this Council!”

Dignity shredded, shame etched on their faces, the two mechs stumbled out of the circle and half-ran to the doors. They threw despairing looks back at the Prime and, seeing no mercy there, fled, their footsteps echoing back along the Temple's cavernous hallways.

His mouth set grimly, Sentinel spoke to the Supreme Commanders whose holograms still haunted the aether above the Council. “The Defence Directorate will deploy immediately to render aid to those caught up in this atrocity. You will disarm and contain any and all Vos and Tarn soldiers still functional and will extract all survivors to safety. Deca Magnus!”

Another hologram flared into existence, the massive figure of the Magnus jittering and shimmering with movement as it rendered him in the middle of frantic coordination. He bowed the briefest of bows to Sentinel.  _ “My Prime. Civic Guard units are on route to the disaster zone. Special medical teams have already reached the Qosho Region and will be on the ground in less then two deca-cycles.” _

“We are grateful for your swiftness of action, Magnus. Defence Directorate forces are on their way as well.”

Magnus nodded.  _ “So I understand. That's good. We are going to need as much help as we can get. Now, forgive me, my Prime, I am boarding a flight as we speak –” _

“Go well. You have the full backing of the Council. Whatever you need, you shall have.”

Deca's image vanished and Xaaron wondered if the practical-minded mech believed that the Council really would be bound by that promise – if anyone from the highest Elite to the lowest labour grade would believe it. On recent evidence, it would have been easy to think otherwise. Even the Prime's intervention had come so late in the day as to be ultimately useless.

Sacred trusts had been shattered, perhaps irrevocably. The consequences were appalling and were counted in the number of the dead. To set it all right was going to take a great deal of will and effort, more perhaps than Cybertron's many governments had shown since their foundations.

Xaaron quietly resumed his seat and signalled for his brother Emirates' attention.

There was no more time to waste.


	2. Fallout

**Vos/Tarn border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

A shell whizzed over Optrion's head, _just_ missing his right antenna, and blew a massive hole out of an already-gutted tower on the other side of the expressway. The ruin gave way with a tremendous screech, slumping forward and cascading into destruction. Flinging himself flat, Optrion tried to get a proper lock on the gunner. With all the interference kicked up by the dust and the after-effects of the bombs, it was near impossible but he finally managed to punch far enough through the electromagnetic blizzard to make out a tight knot of energy signatures, less than half a hix ahead.

Charging his gun, cycling in a fresh accelerator cell, he rolled over, braced himself behind an up-ended shard of road surface and swung out into the open.

A shot impacted an arm's length in front of him, the blast throwing him violently backwards. He tumbled out of control over the rim of the crater behind him and landed on his side with servo-jarring force.

Moments later, Ironhide plummeted in on top of him, half his armour on fire.

“Slag fraggit!” He struggled out of vehicle mode. “This is slaggin' ridiculous! We'll nevar get near 'em!”

“Chemicals no good?” Optrion asked, disentangling himself from his lieutenant.

“Not a slaggin' hope! Didn' do a scrap-damned thing!” Ironhide waved his water gun in disgust. “Slaggin' useless!”

Keeping low and moving fast, they struggled up and across to where fallen debris had created a more secure stretch of cover. There, Trailbreaker and four cavillers were gamely keeping up a return-barrage against the entrenched Tarnian troops. Since the Tarnians had both range and armour on their side, this was mostly an exercise in wasting ammunition but it did at least seem to be discouraging them from advancing on the beleaguered squad.

“Never get into a shooting fight with a Tarnian, eh Commander?” Trailbreaker quipped cheerily as his forcefield flared against a fresh salvo of disruptor fire.

“A motto to live by,” Optrion agreed, hunkering down and peering over the torn-up roadway, “Can anyone tell if they're near one of the lower-level access ramps?”

“I _think_ so.” One of the cavillers transformed her forearm into a sensor package and waved it about. “Damn thing keeps cutting out . . . I think they're near one of the down-traffic tunnels but I can't tell how intact it is. Getting a lot of weird shapes between here and there so I'm guessing 'not very'.”

“Lemme see.” Another soldier, larger and with heavy shutters folded over her back, slid across and jacked into the other's systems. She frowned and shifted the visor that covered much of her face. “That's passable. Gonna be tough but it's passable. Only problem is, we don't got a ramp over here.”

Another shell slammed down on top of them and Trailbreaker's forcefield flared white above them. His shout of pain mingled with the noise of the impact, the strain of protecting them drove him to his knees. “Any time you want to suggest a way out of this is fine by me, Commander,” he said weakly, through shivers of pain.

Optrion pressed a supportive hand to the black mech's shoulder and spoke quickly to the larger of the two femes. “If we could get into the tunnel, are you certain you could force a way through?”

“Yessir. Was in the engineers before transferring.” She shrugged. “Found building things too slow, even when someone was shooting.”

“Excellent. Ironhide. How much acid have you got left?”

“Three cartridges.” He clicked one firmly into his water gun. “Gonna take all that an' then some ta get through.”

“Good. Get started. Slalom, show him were to break though and cover him.”

She threw a salute and hurried Ironhide a little way back from their improvised barricade, the shutters on her back unfurling to shield them while they worked. Optrion turned to the cavalier with the sensor package. “Quasar, once the way is clear, I need you to get up behind those Tarnians, charge up and hit them with everything you've got.”

Quasar nodded, folding the sensors away and shifting her arms. Panels flickered open, the emitters within beginning to glow with a steadily brightening blue light.

Optrion looked over his shoulder. “Trailbreaker – how long can you keep us shielded out in the open?”

“Do you want me to be able to walk afterwards?” The soldier shook his head. “Three, maybe four cycles. Maybe six if I can keep it compressed.”

“Good enough.”

Behind them, a dense cloud of boiling road surface billowed up around Ironhide, the hole at his feet gradually widening to the point where someone would be able to drop through. “So what's the plan, sir?” asked another of the cavillers, an orange mech with the flame pattern that designated a driving ace.

“While Quasar's getting into position, we're going to mount a frontal assault on the Tarnians' position. We'll advance as quickly as possible behind the forcefield. Quasar, you'll have two cycles to make it up there, charge and cut loose. Once the Tarnians are stunned, we'll accelerate up and take them at close quarters. Their armour's thick but if we can get in under it, we can bring them down like anyone else.”

“So.” With some effort, Trailbreaker grabbed one of the armoured canisters of ultra-refined energon he carried at his waist and plugged it into his chest. Almost immediately, the forcefield became denser and expanded slightly. “We're going to pretend to charge straight at them, shock 'em, and then _actually_ charge straight at 'em. Sounds like a winner, Commander!”

“Glad you approve.”

“Through!” Slalom shouted, “Going in to clear the way!”

Quasar darted over to the hole as Ironhide ejected the last empty acid cartridge from his gun. Slalom had already jumped down out of sight. She had not waited to ask Optrion's permission to act as a pathfinder for her fellow cavalier but it was the right thing to do. He signalled Quasar to follow her, then quickly surveyed the four remaining soldiers at his side.

“Form up. Trailbreaker, you're in front with me. Ironhide, prep a round of homing rockets. Turbine, Sprint – keep close in behind me and hold your fire until ordered. We can't risk compromising the forcefield to shoot back.” He hefted his rifle and looked each of them in the face in turn. “Let's go.”

It was the longest two cycles of Optrion's life. The Tarnians' bombardment was unceasing and became heavier and heavier the further they advanced towards them. Trailbreaker's shield did much to disperse the energy being hurled at it but it rapidly got to the point where Optrion and Sprint were having to push him into the incoming fire just to keep them all moving. Constantly zigzagging to avoid the Tarnians' attempts to blow the expressway out from under them made things all the harder.

The noise was incredible. Optrion had to disable his audio receptors to stop them overloading as detonation after detonation ripped the air apart around them. He still felt the shock of every shot and shell and every explosion. It was worse than any charge he could remember. Heaving Trailbreaker over the lip of a crater, the black mech shaking and overheating from the stress of keeping the forcefield extended, knowing that every faltering step forward was bringing them all closer to a very quick death, Optrion wondered if this was what all those alien soldiers had experienced facing down remorseless Cybertronian weaponry. He had always tried his hardest to act decently on the battlefield, to never cause more terror and death than was necessary to protect his people. Was this a kind of cosmic punishment for fighting at all? To die at the hands of those self-same people – to feel the helplessness and futility he had inflicted on others, weaker than himself?

For all that he willed himself and his mechs to keep going, to do their duty, to stop the Tarnian soldiers before they could do any more harm, there was a part of him that would have welcomed the peace failure would bring.

The Tarnians stopped firing. It took a few precious nano-cycles for his vision to adjust, but when it did, Optrion saw the collection of tanks and guns writhing about as their armour and insides fizzed with electrical fire. Just in time, Quasar had struck.

There was no time to waste. Trusting that Trailbreaker would be resilient enough to recover now he did not need to maintain the shield, Optrion let the soldier fall and leapt up the last short rise to the Tarnians' position. He landed among them as the electromagnetic storm subsided, firing his rifle point-blank into the nearest tank. The energy bolt lanced into the exposed superstructure and the tank yelled with pain, stuttering through the first half of his transformation sequence before locking solid. Still moving, Optrion pivoted and fired again, this time nailing a cannon who had been caught cooling down in bipedal form. The deep blue mech was blown sideways, colliding with another and crashing down in a tangle of panels.

Sprint rocketed over them and flung himself bodily at a heavy armoured vehicle that had recovered enough to aim its guns at Optrion, physically wrenching the weapons off target and driving a super-heated fist through the power lines. A red blur rushed past on Optrion's left and then Ironhide was tangling with another of the tanks, heaving him over onto his side, blasting away as he tried to switch forms and right himself. A jet of super-compressed air tumbled a third Tarnian, Turbine's cyclone cannon whining with the effort. At close range, their enemies already half-stunned, Optrion's makeshift squad briefly had the edge.

But a couple of the larger tanks managed to get their act together enough to tackle Ironhide to the ground. A lucky shot fired in haste and Sprint's chest exploded in a shower of fragments. Optrion leapt to defend the cavalier and a massive backhand sent him sprawling. He rolled on to his back, raising his rifle as fast as he could. A truly immense Tarnian stood over him, aiming an implausibly large cannon. The vast black maw flared to starlight brilliance, sending radiation warning symbols cascading across Optrion's vision.

At the last instant, he fired, knocking his attacker's aim just enough that the colossal stream of energy ploughed into the expressway behind him rather than into his head. He fired again and again, to no effect. Fully transformed, the Tarnian's armour was locked in place and simply soaked up everything that was thrown at it.

Optrion had just enough time to decide that whatever deep self-destructive thoughts he might harbour, he very much did not want to die –

Then a huge white hand descended from above, clamped around the Tarnian's head and flung him effortlessly over the edge of the expressway.

“Got your back, boss!” Aerodyne boomed, touching down with deceptive lightness. Towering above them all, he swept tank after tank out of the way, his kicks and punches demolishing any Tarnian unlucky enough to be in reach. A couple of the gunners managed to scurry out of range and fired a desperate salvo at the giant Air Guardian, staggering him, forcing him to one knee. Before they could press their advantage, a silver figure sprang from his back and slammed down on top of them. A dark shape at his side bit and sliced at the gunners' tracks, immobilising them as the he fired repeatedly into their turrets. They gave twin piteous screams and fell silent.

Staggering to his feet, Optrion lurched across to Ironhide and dragged him upright. The red warrior's head was badly crushed in on one side and one of his arms was hanging loose but all his readings were strong. The same could not be said for Sprint, whose power core was flickering erratically. Quasar was with him, hands glowing, trying to trip his status-lock protocols before it was too late. Looking at the orange mech through a medical scan, Optrion feared it already was. Slalom too had sustained massive injuries to her mid and lower body and was losing fuel faster than Turbine could effect repairs.

A shadow fell across him. He looked up. Commander Megatron's face was eerily still, lacking any trace of expression. His optics glowed crimson. “How many of your soldiers can move?” he grated.

Optrion did a quick count. Besides Sprint and Slalom, the rest of them had survived with only minor injuries. Even Trailbreaker was recovering, limping up to join them and hand out emergency energon supplies. “All but two of us, sir. But we need medical evacuation on –”

“No. No time. We need to press on. There's a group of Vosians massing two hix to the west of here and a Tarnian brigade advancing on them fast. They're about to start a pitched battle in the middle of one of the few intact residential districts so we need to neutralise them fast. Get your mechs aboard the Air Guardian. Leave the wounded.” Megatron's optics flared that little bit more red. “We'll come back for them when we have reinforcements.”

Optrion wanted to argue, knew it was pointless. Megatron was right. Too many lives hung in the balance. Too many had died already. Even if it meant sentencing Slalom and Sprint to death, they had to keep moving. Angrily, he began to form the order –

“Look!” Aerodyne pointed skywards. A cloud of angular shapes was boiling towards them over the northern horizon, ablaze with heat signatures. In moments, they resolved into flights of Air Guardians and the great crescents of sub-orbital transports, angling out across the ruined cities. Ravage, appearing at Megatron's heels, hissed and transformed, communications arrays humming and buzzing as he fought to punch through the interference and reach out to the approaching aircraft.

After an age, a much-distorted voice crackled across the main comm-channel. _“–ander Jaantanon of the Second Homeworld Battalion. We are on route to your position, awaiting your orders. Repeat, calling Field Commander Megatron. This is Field Commander Jaantanon of the Second Homeworld Battalion. We are on route to your position, awaiting your orders. Please respond.”_

“Get me a response channel!” Megatron shouted, “Now!”

Ravage must have managed it because he almost immediately began transmitting. _“Jaantanon, this is Megatron. Direct your vanguard to these coordinates and intercept Vos/Tarn forces. Neutralise with all available speed. Distribute containment squads in the following districts and order them to guide any and all civilians out to safe-zones beyond the edges of the cities. Also, dispatch immediate medical team to my position. We have soldiers down.”_

Excited comm-chatter twisted in the aether around him, Jaantanon responding, other commanders and squad leaders requesting orders. Hope surged up in Optrion as he comprehended the sheer volume of reinforcements that were descending towards them.

He set Ironhide down and rushed towards Slalom, reaching out to help stabilise what remained of her core systems.

And was just in time to see those systems fade into darkness.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Northern Transport Hub**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

 

“More proto-matter tanks? Get them over to section three! They've just pulled a bunch of people out with severe crush injuries! Wrench! Stop messing around with that guy's rotators and lock him off. He can get new arms later! Caayrin, where's my electro-pump –”

“This guy's fading!”

“Slaggit – hold this on. Piledriver, stop panicking and start stasis-locking! What the Pit were you thinking, opening him up without surge protectors? Right. There we go. Box him up. Fix him later. Go help Tourniquet sort out the bits of those two cars over there. Caayrin! I told you to hold that on! Do I have to do everything myself – what the slag do you want?”

Diatrion shifted on his wheels, adjusting his trailer. The white and red medic was up to his elbows in what was left of a big grey hauler and barely spared him a glare. “Are you Medical Officer Toiinat? I'm with the Tagen Civic Guard. We've just moved in another load of equipment –”

“I'm Ratchet,” the medic interrupted, snatching a large spike-like device from his assistant and jamming it into the hauler's power core, “You're slagging late. Get that stuff set up across the square.”

“We've brought more medics, too. What do you want them –”

“What the slag do you think I want them to do? Aren't there enough bodies lying around? Tell them to fix anyone who needs fixing! Wrench – the hexe behind you – his core's overheating. Emergency shut-down – now!”

Figuring he would not be getting any more instructions than that, Diatrion drove on, ordering the rest of his team to follow his lead.

The transport hub had once been an imposing building set in the middle of an expansive plaza. It had probably been grand and neat, like everything else in Tarn. Now, the clean lines had been destroyed and bodies of all shapes and sizes lay strewn across the square, mangled and smashed beyond recognition. Dozens were still on fire, their energon not yet exhausted even as they melted. Many more were little more than scraps, scarcely distinguished from the wreckage around them.

In the middle of the square, the military medics had set up row after row of repair slabs. Already, they were having to load two or three bodies on to the same slab, the wounded piling up faster than they could be saved.

Slewing to a halt, Diatrion unhitched the trailer and commanded it to open out. Beside him, nineteen other officers did the same, adding more slabs and equipment into the fray. White and blue medics raced in to join their military counterparts, taking their cue from senior mechanics like Ratchet, who seemed to be everywhere at once, directing three operations for every one he performed himself. The non-medical Guardsmechs formed up beside Diatrion, waiting for him to tell them where to start.

“You lot expectin' an invitation or somethin'?” demanded a green tank, swerving around them, “Get diggin', ya buncha' dead-weights!” It drove on, ploughing a way through some of the looser rubble to reach a largely intact shop module.

Diatrion hesitated only a moment. “Clench, Talaniat – three groups. One sweeps the west side, one the east and the other with me to help dig into the main building. Coordinate with any military personnel working your sections and scan for any access to the sub-levels that might have provided shelter. Ferry moveable injured back to the repair bays and alert medics to any who can't be shifted. Any questions? Good. Go.”

Deca-cycles passed in a frenzy of wreckage, dust and body-parts. The Civic Guard was helping. Diatrion could see that with every fire Inferno and Red Hot put out, with every body Borebit and Trencher heaved from under the debris, with every life Simmer and Unitron saved. Yet the disaster dwarfed them. They could work for a quartex and still be no nearer to recovering every survivor and every victim.

In the middle of easing the tangled remains of a support girder away from the quad it had been pinning, he wondered what fraction of Tarn's population still lived. Or of Vos'. How many would never be found, alive or dead? How many would die while they waited for rescue, their sparks scattered by injury, their fuel slowly burning up until awareness left them forever?

With the girder finally out of the way, he was able to gently lift the quad out of the ground. The little form shivered in his arms, wheels twitching, shredded stub of a tail thrashing back and forth. “Can you hear me?” Diatrion asked, eyeing the damage with concern. The quad shuddered and managed a brief radio burst before lapsing back into insensibility, head lolling.

Diatrion carried him as carefully as possible to the field infirmary, not wanting to risk the jolt of transformation. Thick oil slipped through his fingers, leaving dark puddles behind him with ever step. It took him cycles to find a clear space on one of the repair slabs, fitting the quad in beside a battered avir and a heavily damaged trac. The medics working on them shot Diatrion identical despairing glances. The nearest quickly scanned the quad and fed a power lead into his side. “He'll stabilise,” she said briskly, going back to pulling glass shards from the avir's wings.

“Keep up the good work,” the other murmured, her fingers racing through the trac's innards.

He nodded and dropped into truck mode, the quicker to get back to digging.

A sound, high and unsteady, rose over the general din. Jet engines, he realised, cutting in audio-enhancers. His first thought was that it was a transport bringing in new supplies or doing an aerial sweep. But the pitch was all wrong somehow, as if something in those engines were starting to come loose.

Someone shouted and an orange flyer appeared overhead with such abruptness it might have sprung from empty air. Wings twitching frantically as it tired to keep steady, it screamed down at them, voice grating as badly as its turbines. “D-DIE, T-TARNIAN SCUM!”

There was an instant between the yell and the jet's guns reaching full charge. Just long enough to transform. Just long enough to leap in front of the repair slabs.

The first rounds slammed into his chest mid-leap. It was all Diatrion could do to twist enough to land on his feet. His body was on fire, his vision blurring into a white-out of energy backwash and warning symbols. He leaned blindly into the torrent, aware that at any moment the shots were going to start going clean through him and –

The jet stopped firing. The pitch of its engines became even more tortured and receded. Diatrion's knees gave way and he collapsed, mildly annoyed that he could not stop himself. Energy bolts sang overhead and the jet squawked with pain, its anti-gravs finally and loudly giving out.

Someone ran over to Diatrion's side. He heard their footfalls rushing closer over the surrounding din. With some effort, he managed to roll on to his back. It was Ratchet, a smoking blaster in one hand, a laser in the other, face fixed in a furious grimace. He glowered at the jet as it spiralled to the ground, then looked down sharply at Diatrion. The blaster clicked away and he knelt, waving over Diatrion's half-melted chest.

“Severe dermal overheating, impact cracks on seventeen plates, shock damage to primary sub-structure. Hmph.” The medic reached out to help him stand. “If you're going to make a habit of jumping in the line of fire, Guardsmech, get some stronger armour. Can you still see?”

“Just about.” He winced. “Was anyone hit?”

“Apart from you, you mean? No. You drew the idiot's fire real good.”

Ratchet heaved him up and waited for him to settle on his feet, which he did heavily and uncomfortably. His whole torso was numb, all the sensors burnt out. “Thanks.”

“Don't thank me,” the medic said with a shrug, “Don't think I got him once. Probably Bombshock who shot him down.” Another medic working close by snagged his attention. “Slag it! Oi! Stop messing around getting him looking pretty and get on to the next! You've locked off the fuel pump, he's not going to seep to death!”

The target of this minor tirade quailed under the onslaught and meekly hurried over to the next slab along. Ratchet frowned after him, then back up at Diatrion. “Give your systems a cycle to get a grip on the internal damage and you'll be fine. And . . . thanks.” He nodded once, curtly, and charged away, shouting at another group of medics who were trying to keep an agonised tank from ripping free of the construction brace they'd fitted her into.

It had all happened so fast. The attack, the defence, getting back to work. Normally, in normal life, the important thing would have been to detain the shooter, to find out why he had opened fire, to invoke the local laws and prepare him for trial. Yet here, now, that was not going to happen. Because this was not a crime scene. It was a battlefield and on a battlefield, it was not 'assault with the the intent to cause physical impairment', it was an encounter with an enemy combatant and there was no time to do anything but shoot them down and get back to work. That was how war worked. If you stopped to observe the niceties of legal process, people died.

That was the justification. That was what turned murder into warfare. Everyone agreed to change the rules and suddenly it was acceptable to open fire on each other, to bomb and destroy and to instantly meet force with force, unto the utmost degree.

Diatrion pressed a hand to his buckled chest plates. It was wrong. Fundamentally, basically, primally wrong. This was not how civilisation was supposed to function. It was not what he was meant to uphold. But here he was and here he would have to stay, scratching about in the ash to salvage something, anything that remained. Digging out the dead and dying. The only thing the law could do when faced with a holocaust.

Ratchet had said he needed thicker armour.

Before this was over, Diatrion was entirely certain that he would be proved right.


	3. Breaking the Spear

**Defence** **Directorate Command Platform**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

“Report. Quickly.”

“We have isolated the remaining Vosian command units and are standing by to shut them down. Air Guardians have been dispatched to take point at all locations but are facing heavy fire from Vos' surviving aerial forces. A lot of their heavy flyers are more manoeuvrable than anything we have and they're taking a long time to go down.”

“Send in the squads to take out the command units now.”

The tactician – Megatron had barely registered his security clearance, let alone his name – hesitated. “Sir . . . without Air Guardian support, I'm not sure they'll have the fire power to overwhelm –”

“I don't need them to overwhelm the Vosians, I need them to keep them so occupied they can't keep coordinating the forces preventing the Air Guardians from getting through. Do it.”

“Oh. Yes, Commander. Of course.”

Megatron rounded on the other side of the war room. “The Tarnian situation?”

“Almost no central control of remaining city forces.” Hevacce pointed at the scattered icons on the map. “They're totally uncoordinated. We're seeing groups of them firing on anything that moves, others throwing down their guns to help civilians. Not that that's making it any easier to contain them. Tarn's topography is too complicated – there are too many places for them to dig in and they are much better at weathering aerial bombardment than the Vosians.”

“Use the sub-surface passages,” Megatron ordered, commanding the map to show the layers beneath the streets and expressways, “Optrion and Turbo have been able to make use of them at close range. Let's expand on the idea. Send in driller squads to get in under the hold-outs.”

“I'll get on it.” Hevacce refocused the view and highlighted several large structures. “These will be another matter. Most of the central bunkers were cracked open by the blast but these are still mostly intact . . . and if those warheads didn't get through . . .”

“For now, we do nothing. They haven't fired on the rescue teams sent into those areas. Until they do or until they send out more soldiers to attack the Vosians, we're not wasting resources on them.”

“Understood.”

The red squad leader turned away to begin issuing orders. Megatron took a long look at the map, considering the shifts in geography the twin missile strikes had caused. So much destruction, so little purpose to it all. Had any of those responsible survived their idiocy? His fists closed involuntarily. For their sake, he hoped not.

“I will move in to join the ground forces in Vos,” he announced to the room at large, “I want two heavy squads ready to depart in three cycles. We'll clear a path for the rescue teams and reinforce the containment squads. The Vosian commanders' most likely rallying point will be here, the Coppermount fortress. We'll co-opt any local defences along the approach corridors and let them retreat towards us. That way we decide the terms of engagement and minimise further collateral damage.”

A flurry of activity met his words, the preparations getting under way before he had finished laying out the plan. He flashed load-out instructions and route maps as he spoke, updating the map and his mechs simultaneously. In moments, the tank squads would be armed, fuelled and ready to board the combat shuttles. If all went well, they could slip in amidst the chaos in the skies over Vos and be on the slopes of Coppermount before any of the locals were any the wiser.

If all went well. As he headed for the door, Ravage slipping after him, Megatron sneered at the phrase. Nothing about this insanity had gone well so far. Could he really believe this to be the exception?

“A moment of your time, Field Commander?”

He stopped abruptly at the interruption, ready to snap angrily at whoever was making such a stupid request. Supreme Commander Viktoleo met his glare with mild blue optics and the most patient of expressions.

Megatron saluted automatically. “Sir. I'm afraid I need to deploy out into the field immediately,” he added, trying not to sound unsure as to what in the Pit a Supreme Commander was doing in his command platform.

“I promise not to detain you for long. And I believe there are still two and a half of those three cycles you mentioned remaining . . . ?”

There was absolutely no way to refuse. Not without going against every shred of protocol and openly insulting one of the three highest-ranking members of the Defence Directorate. Megatron gestured to the corridor outside. “Of course, sir. If we can talk on the way?”

Viktoleo nodded graciously and fell into step beside him, perfectly matching his long strides. “This is extremely inconvenient for you so I will cut straight to the point,” he said, vocalising it so that only Megatron – and Ravage, of course – could hear him, “Field Commander Vieuxuun.”

Megatron nearly crashed to a halt again. “What about him?”

“He is currently sitting mode-locked in a detainment cell with several severe injuries to his outer armour and weapons systems. You appreciate that this is not a natural position for a ranking office of the Defence Directorate to be in.”

“I put him there.” Megatron made a cutting gesture. “I take full responsibility and will answer for it later if needed to. But right now –”

“Right now you are doing an admirable job of dragging some sort of organised response out of this disaster. Which I am here to help with by telling you that we back your judgement entirely in this matter.”

This time, Megatron did stop. “Excuse me?”

Viktoleo's mouth formed something that was almost but not quite a smile. “Effective immediately, your decision to relieve Vieuxuun of duty has the retroactive approval of Grandus, Deftwing and myself. Your actions in moving swiftly and decisively to disable the Vos and Tarn military infrastructure have our complete backing and all the available forces are indisputably under your command.”

“You came here to tell me that I have the job I already had?” Megatron asked in disbelief, “And that locking up the mech who murdered one of my best soldiers was the right thing to do?” He did not know whether to be relieved or disgusted.

“Not at all. I am here to be seen to give our approval to you for the benefit of everyone watching this crisis unfold and believe me, that is everyone who can watch.” Bafflement must have shown on Megatron's face because Viktoleo went on, “Consider this a signifier of your authority. Not for your troops, but for the world outside the Defence Directorate. By being seen to come here and emerge at your side as you go off to bring an end to this conflict, I am showing Cybertron as a whole that you are the legitimate instrument by which order will be restored – rather than, say, a lone field commander who astronomically exceeded the remit of his orders to launch a two-pronged invasion of two sovereign states with a hilariously out-numbered contingent of planetary defence soldiers.”

“With the greatest of respect,” Megatron said firmly, “I do not have time to play political games.”

“No,” Viktoleo said, matching his tone exactly, “That is why we are playing them for you. But make no mistake about this, Field Commander: everything you do from here on out will have political ramifications. The Prime himself authorised – _commanded_ – this intervention. You understand? We are conferring on you _Primal authority_.”

He stared at the Supreme Commander, not really seeing him at all. Primal authority. The permission of the Prime to cut through the ridiculous snarl of laws and regulations that had kept them from doing anything until it was too late. Legitimacy for what he needed to do. Although not necessarily to do whatever it took. And all the consequences that came with that. The responsibilities. The weight of expectation, anticipation, speculation and condemnation. As Viktoleo said: political ramifications. All on him.

“I understand,” he acknowledged solemnly, placing his fist against his chest, “I will do what I must and what I can to save these people.”

“We know.” The Supreme Commander returned the salute, horns tilting slightly. “That is why we're giving you the job. Now.” He indicated the platform exit. “Let me walk you to your dropship. Wouldn't want you to be late with the world watching, would we?”

 

* * *

 

**Iesyn District**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

 

“Please! If you won't stand down, at least let us airlift the civilians out of here! We know they must be heavily injured! Please let us remove them to a safer area for medical treatment! At least let us –!”

Optrion ducked quickly back behind a barricade, nano-cycles ahead of a blaster bolt. He leaned heavily against the reinforced barrier and grunted. “I'm getting a bit tired of people trying to shoot me in the head.”

“It gets a bit dull after a while, yeah,” Trailbreaker agreed from his observation post a few barriers along, “Although I don't think shouting at them any louder's gonna help, actually.”

“Any other suggestions gratefully received.”

“Uh.” Quasar held up her fingers. “They're walled up tight in that refinery. By walls, we mean massively thick shields meant to contain energon detonations. Even if we could blast through, there are still energon stores in there. And a bunch of civilians that those soldiers have rounded up believing they're protecting them from an invading army. And we can't get around the back because of that . . . um . . . I'm _trying_ to come up with a better description than 'wall of fire' but I'm not sure how else to describe what happens when you use a photon bomb to ignite an entire fuel distribution network. Also there's so much radiation this far into the city that the civilians are probably already cooking in their own oil, so if we don't get them out soon . . . uh. So, in short . . . um . . . I got nothing.” She slumped despondently. “Sorry sir.”

Adjusting his optics yet again to try and compensate for the fierce light, Optrion looked at the troops lined up awkwardly beside him. Despondency hung heavy in the boiling air. Everyone present was sullen and frustrated, trying hard to concentrate as every cooling system in their bodies strained against the heat from the fires. A few were uncomfortably adjusting and readjusting their weapons, the more technically minded among them trying to configure their way to a solution. Unfortunately, so far no one had come forward with an inventive way of melting the refinery shields or opening a fold-space aperture through them or something equally useful.

Perhaps if they had another means besides shouting to communicate with the entrenched Tarnian soldiers, more options would be apparent. But this deep into the city the interference was so thick every communication channel had been ripped to random shrieks.

Perhaps it would have made no difference. The Tarnians did not want to listen. Trapped as they were in the burning wreckage of their home, it was understandable that they would prefer to shoot anyone who came close.

Optrion slammed a fist into an open hand. No way to talk them down, no way to flank them, no way to breech the walls or burrow underneath and certainly no chance of taking them safely from the air. This was Cybertron. Not an alien planet with unknown geography and geology. This was his home territory. That should have been all the advantage he needed. Yet a strategy evaded him and his failure would likely trap them in a pointless siege.

“Excuse me? Commander Optrion?”

Grateful for the slightest distraction, he turned to find a short white and blue armoured mech clambering towards him. “That's me. You're with the Civic Guard?”

“Ah, yes. I'm Chief Medic Coiiynn – ah, I need to talk to you about those people in their.”

“If you have a way of getting them out of there, please feel free to share it.”

“Ah . . . I'm afraid not. It's the civilians.” Coiiynn fiddled with the wheels in his forearms. “I'm sure I don't need to tell you that they're in danger. Your sky-spy operators tell me that the shields on the other side of the refinery are cracked. The radiation is hard enough on us – and we've all been toughened. What I'm saying is that, in my opinion, we can't draw this out more than another day before the people in their start to suffer irreparable damage. Even your mechs aren't going to be able to weather this indefinitely.”

Trying very hard to remain patient, Optrion fixed the little medic with a level stare. “I am well aware of the danger, Chief Medic. I fully intend to resolve this situation soon.”

“Yes. Of course. I'm sorry. I just feel . . . rather useless standing out here.” He hesitated, then looked down at his feet. “The worst of it is, I'm Tarnian. I feel that should give me some insight I could offer you.”

“You're . . . Tarnian?” Optrion did not mean to sound so surprised but Coiiynn seemed resigned to the response, not offended.

“Before I joined the Guard, yes. I know, I know. I'm very short for it. As I say, I feel I should be able to give you some psychological insight that'll let you talk them down.”

“But you can't?”

“No.” Coiiynn grimaced. “They're Tarnians. Stubborn, patriotic, scared, angry Tarnians. They won't come out because they don't trust anything outside. I can't honestly say I blame them.”

It was so obvious that Optrion audibly cursed himself for not thinking of it immediately.

He spun, leaving Coiiynn to splutter in surprise. “Quasar – how far out would you need to get a transmission through to the command network?”

“Um – I – ah – two, three hix to minimum clearance? I'm not sure but if I run it at maximum power I think I could get through at two.”

“Then I need you to do that as fast as possible and send this to all points . . .”

 

* * *

**Coppermount**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

 

Megatron roared, guns flaring one after the other, broadsiding the jet trying to bank out of his line of fire. He wheeled around as its wing-mates tried to follow through on dive-bombing him, blowing their wings from their fuselages. The Vosians plummeted from the sky, helpless and screaming.

All along the ground approach to Coppermount, Defence Directorate tanks were pounding away at Vosian squadrons. They kept coming and throwing themselves towards the fortress. Seeking sanctuary, trying to regroup, simply attempting to drive out the intruding forces – Megatron did not know and did not care. What mattered was that they were being drawn there, away from any civilians who might get caught in the crossfire. As long as they kept funnelling themselves into the killing zone, he was content to take them down.

Coppermount stood on the far side of Vos from Tarn, a defiant red shard stabbing at the sky. A relic of the distant past, it had been left behind by modern Vos as the centre of the city moved towards the coastal trade routes. It had not been forgotten – modern emplacements peered from the battlements and modern weapons ringed the perimeter – but that had almost been a reflex action, the Vosian military adhering to old habits out of a sense of tradition. It was only now that everything else was gone that it seemed like a reasonable place to fall back to. Perhaps they thought that behind the solid, reliable walls of the past they would be safe from the insanity of the present.

Idiots.

He surged forward into the fire from another wave of flyers. They were good – very good – dodging and weaving and banking and breaking off with expert timing. It earned them a few extra cycles of consciousness and wasted a few more cycles of his time. Subduing morons who could not see that there was nothing left to fight for was a distraction best ended quickly. Soon the only ones left flying would be the ones with some actual ability. And that would just draw it out further.

“ _Commander.”_ Ravage's voice buzzed inside his head. _“Optrion has just sent a request into the command net that you should see.”_

Pausing long enough to transform and boost himself to a more secure position, Megatron acknowledged. If Ravage felt something important enough to disturb him with mid-battle, it was. _“Go on.”_

“ _He has just asked that the highest ranking Tarnian officer who has either stood down or been placed in custody be taken to his current location. He . . . believes that they will help him resolve a situation he has encountered.”_

“ _Authorised,”_ Megatron said without hesitation, folding back down and reopening fire. It was easy to see what Optrion was planning and it might even work. The Tarnian ethos under Viilon had always included faith in authority.

“ _Understood,”_ Ravage purred, with the faintest hint of criticism of how fast he was to trust 'the Iaconian'. But that was Ravage. No faith in anyone.

Still the Vosians kept coming. Still they threw themselves towards Coppermount and against the Defence Directorate. Was that a lack of faith too? A lack of trust of anyone now their world was destroyed?

It did not matter. He would keep shooting them down until they learnt to stay there.

Perhaps then they might start listening to reason.

 

* * *

**Keesin District**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

 

“They're here!” Trailbreaker pointed to the white spot of a shuttle flying low over the expressway towards them. Ordinarily the gesture would have seemed silly but with the heat and the radiation swamping their sensors, looking and pointing was pretty much all they had left.

The shuttle carefully touched down on a piece of intact roadway, settling uneasily. Its side opened up and two figures jumped out, one jumping again into a jet form and allowing the other to grab hold. They flew up to the barricade, coming swiftly and as close to the ground as possible to avoid taking fire from the Tarnians.

The passenger – a truly gigantic grey and blue mech – dropped down right in front of Optrion and saluted smartly. The jet unfolded into Deca Magnus, at which point everyone else saluted.

“Sir.” Optrion stepped forward. “Forgive me, this is unexpected.”

“No doubt.” Deca indicated the grey mech. “I was in discussion with the captain here when your message came through. We agreed it would be quickest to use my shuttle and while I admit I am unlikely to be much help in talking these soldiers down, I hoped I might be able to offer some assistance.”

“Ah, thank you, sir . . .”

“Don't mind me, Commander. Consider an me observer until you need me to be otherwise. Continue as you planned. This is your operation.”

Trying not to find that statement overly ominous, Optrion turned to the Tarnian captain. He had red optics and a solid frame that suggested he turned into something heavily armed and immobile. “You want me to talk to them,” he said, nodding at the refinery.

“Yes. I know you stood your mechs down to help with the relief effort and I hoped that you might be able to convince these soldiers to do so as well. There are a significant number of civilians in with them and we need to get them to safety as soon as possible.”

“I understand. I will do it. I don't suppose you can get a channel through this . . . ? No of course not. Very well then.”

He stepped up to the barricade and out into the gap between two of the barriers. A shot immediately ricochetted off his armour, though this caused him little obvious damage. He stood out in the open, letting the Tarnians see him clearly. They did not fire again.

“I AM CAPTAIN Ci-114 OF THE THIRD DEFENCE UNIT,” he shouted in a voice that shook the ground, “MY NAME IS CERRE MECH BOS TAVA SZENDA. I AM OF TARN. LIKE YOU. I AM SOLDIER, LIKE YOU. AND LIKE YOU I HAVE WATCHED MY HOME DIE. EVERYTHING I WAS SUPPOSED TO DEFEND IS DESTROYED. THIS IS WRONG. THIS IS UNFORGIVABLE. AND YOU ARE RIGHT TO TRY TO PROTECT THOSE WHO SURVIVED. YOU HAVE DONE YOUR DUTY. BUT YOU CANNOT STAY HERE. THE PEOPLE YOU ARE PROTECTING CANNOT STAY HERE. I KNOW YOU WANT TO FIGHT. I KNOW YOU DON'T TRUST THOSE WHO HAVE COME INTO OUR CITY. I DIDN'T. BUT THIS IS TOO BIG. THERE ARE TOO MANY WOUNDED. WE CANNOT DRIVE OUT THE DEFENCE DIRECTORATE AND SAVE OUR BROTHERS AT THE SAME TIME. WE . . . NEED THESE PEOPLE TO HELP US. OUR DUTY HAS TO BE TO THE SURVIVORS NOW. PLEASE DON'T LET ANY MORE TARNIANS DIE TODAY.”

Falling silent, he waited. They all waited. Optrion scanned the refinery, looking as best he could for any sign that Cerrebos' words had fallen on receptive audios. For a very long time, there was nothing. No shots, no open doors. Nothing.

Cerrebos shifted his stance, looking back at the rest of them uncertainly. Trailbreaker fidgeted about, half readying his forcefield projectors. Quasar's emitters snapped open and closed compulsively. Arms folded, the Magnus remained utterly impassive.

Something moved at the top of the refinery wall. A shape against the sky. It rose up and detached itself, a mech leaping over the edge and falling towards them. Slowing his descent with jet plumes, he dropped closer until he could land in front of Cerrebos. Massive, with the same grey/blue colour scheme, he was clearly of a kind with the Tarnian captain. He did not make any gesture of respect or recognition but looked Cerrebos up and down, then glanced past him at the Defence Directorate soldiers. When he saw the Magnus, his optics widened. “Sub-Captain Ci-086-6,” he introduced himself after a moment, “of the Seventh Defence Unit. For standing down when there are invaders in the city, I should consider you a traitor.”

“I can't argue with that,” Cerrebos replied evenly, “I disobeyed my orders. But the Central Command is gone. The High Governor is gone. Tarn itself barely exists any more. Primus, even the enemy is gone. All we have left are the people and we won't protect them by fighting these people.” He waved one massive hand at Optrion and the Magnus and the rest of them.

Ci-086-6's optics flared slightly. “I know. I understand that. I don't like it but I understand it.” Drawing himself up, he went on, “Which is why we'll allow you to enter and evacuate the civilians. Just the soldiers. Not the White and Blues.” He stabbed a finger at the Magnus. “They betrayed us, covering up for those Pit-damned Vosians. Soldiers only. Understood?”

“Yes,” Optrion agreed, because it seemed this last was addressed to him, “What about you though? Your mechs?”

“We're staying,” Ci-086-6 told him flatly, faceplates tightened. “We've all agreed. Everything's gone. It's all over. But we'll do our duty. Protect this place, what's left of it. There's nothing for us out here. We're staying.”

Cerrebos opened his mouth to argue but it was Coiiynn who spoke first. The little medic had been standing forgotten off to one side and he stepped forward angrily. “You can't. You'll die. Even if you can survive it for now, constant exposure will kill you. You're armours' already starting to ionise. If you stay here –”

“Then we die here.”

“But –”

“Medic, stand down,” the Magnus ordered quietly. He was looking at the ground now, his fists resting against his hips. “This is wasting time.”

“Yeah.” Ci-086-6 sneered. “It is.” He turned to Cerrebos one final time. “You are a traitor. You should have done what we were built for. But . . . if you can live with that . . . make sure something good comes out of this.”

“I'll protect our people,” the captain promised, offering his hand.

Ci-086-6 gripped it briefly, then spun and made finger signals at the refinery. Painfully slowly, the shield cracked open, a bridge reaching out over to the barricade. Not looking back, the Tarnian soldier marched stiffly away across to the gaping doorway, where his comrades were already beginning to guide walking wounded into the open.

Cerrebos watched him go sadly. Coiiynn all but stamped his foot in frustration, biting off a bitter curse.

Determined that no more time would be wasted, Optrion ordered his mechs to fold away the barricade and begin extracting the Tarnian civilians. He sent Trailbreaker up to generate a forcefield bubble around those most in danger from exposure to the fallout and had Quasar go and summon their shuttles. The Civic Guard medics would board the transports to treat injuries on route back to the main infirmary camps while the military medics did the work on the ground. That way they could keep Ci-086-6's conditions and still make use of the resources to hand.

Directing his troops' efforts, Optrion found himself standing next to Cerrebos. The Tarnian's face was blank as he watched the first civilians crossing the bridge.

“Thank you.”

Cerrebos looked down in surprise. “There is nothing to thank me for, Commander. I did this for my people, not for you.”

“I know.”

“May I stay?” he asked, “To help. Perhaps I can reassure them that they won't be harmed.”

“I think that would be an extremely good idea.” Optrion frowned, then said, “If you don't mind me asking, what did he mean, what you were built for?”

The captain did not answer for several micro-cycles. When he did, it was reluctantly. “I . . . he and I are . . . they called us Fortresses. We were supposed to be the first line of defence against a ground invasion. They remade us. Gave us one function. Fight to the death to keep the enemy out. We should all have died before allowing a single Vosian to enter the city. But . . .” He rolled his huge shoulders. “They didn't need to, did they?”

“No.” The Magnus had come up beside them, footsteps masked by the surrounding din. “They did not.” The light turned the white of his armour fiery.

“Why?” Cerrebos whispered, his optics reflecting that same fire, “Why did they . . . why did it come to this?”

Optrion had no answer for him. And if the Magnus did, he kept silent about it.

 


	4. Survivor/Guilt

**Remains of the Torvccl Galleries**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

 

It was dark and he was in pain.

He was in pain and he could not see. Could not move.

He could not move, he could not see and everything hurt. Oh Primus, was he dead? Was this death? Being trapped in darkness and pain, unable to move?

No. He was thinking. He could think and feel and so he must still be alive. Trapped. Nose-cone. Wings. Trapped. Engines burnt out. Fused. Pinned. Something was pinning him down. There was something immensely heavy pressing on top of him, pressing him into the ground. No room to transform. No room to do anything. And the parts of him that did not hurt, he could not feel at all.

Sarristec began to panic.

Time passed. He had no idea how long. The world stayed dark. Sometimes his consciousness faded out completely. The pain persisted.

In a more lucid moment, it occurred to him that that was a good thing. If he hurt all over, then his spark could not have been scattered. He was still a coherent whole.

But then . . . what about the parts of himself he could not feel? Did that mean that parts of his mind had just gone? No. No, that couldn't be true. It _couldn't_.

Light. A chink of light falling across his fuselage. Noise too. Voices.

Rescue!

He tried to call out, to scream at them so they would come and save him. His voice would not respond. His antenna stayed silent. Nothing responded. Everything was locked up, blank, crying out in agony.

It couldn't end like this. It couldn't.

It could. He could die here. Salvation could pass him by. Easily. He could so easily be beneath its notice.

Beneath everything's notice.

No! No. Please, no. Please –

“Hey! We got a live one here! Help me get this lot shifted!”

Vibrations reached him dimly through his prison walls. Footsteps hurrying. The straining of pistons and servos. The chink of light wobbled and distorted and split wide open. Air and dust rushed about as the rubble above him – yes, rubble, that was what it was, of course – was lifted away. Suddenly, he could move again. Could flex his wings, however weakly. Fresh pain flooded his body as he did so. Grit ground in his joints. His tail-fins were twisted beyond use. Nothing felt the right shape.

But he was rescued. He would live. That mattered. That was all that mattered.

Someone jumped down close by. A green mech. Lithe. Blue optics. Big hands. He carefully cleared the wreckage from around Sarristec, easing him free. He spoke as he did it, reassuring words about everything being all right. With a shout, he summoned other mechs, a hexe, two quads. Together, they lifted Sarristec up and away, carrying him roughly out into a big flat space and setting him down there. One of the quads fiddled with a canister and connected it to his side.

There was a rush of liquid power. Fuel. Precious energon flooding into empty tubes. Awareness came with it, connections restoring, repair systems coming online at last. He could think properly again. His body was his again. He could remember –

In one great spasm, he transformed and screamed with the agony of it. He collapsed to the ground whimpering. The green mech and the quad offered reassuring hands, helping him ease into a sitting position. “Easy there, lad,” said the mech, patting his shoulder, “Take it easy. You're doin' fine.”

Sarristec ground his mouth shut and fought through the hurt. He let automatic processes numb the parts that were beyond repair, let them consolidate him within safer places. Slowly, oh so very slowly, his mind focused.

The ground before his optics was blackened and covered in fragments of melted glass. There was a shard of a girder. A distorted frame. The grotesquely warped remains of someone's leg. All wrong. The ground should not look like that.

He lifted his head.

Desolation. Utter and complete desolation in every direction as far as he could see. The world had been turned to black and grey. His city, his glorious Vos had been broken. Smashed. Ravaged. A landscape that had made the spark soar had turned to a wasteland of husks and broken shells. He no longer recognised it. Every landmark had been burnt away. Where once was beauty and glamour and greatness, now was only destruction and defeat.

Sarristec hugged himself, desperate not to believe it. It had to look worse than it was. There had to be something left. There _had to be_.

Missile locks on Taynset's displays. Columns of fire diving into the night sky. Light beyond description. The howl of a new-born star.

No. This was real. There was no escape from that.

No escape . . .

“What's your name, lad?” asked the green mech kindly, kneeling beside him.

Sarristec met his optic. “Zacarii,” he said shakily, lying on instinct, picking the first name he could think of.

“Nice to meet'cha, Zacarii. I'm Pikup. I'm with planetary defence. We're pulling all survivors out'a the city and taking 'em to a safe medical camp. You feeling up to the trip?”

“Y-yes.” Yes, oh yes. He had to get away from this place, away from the corpse of everything he had ever known and ever wanted.

Away from the betrayal and the destruction and the memories.

He let Pikup help him to his feet, wobbling uncertainly as he tried to walk. It became easier after a few steps and weak as he was, he was able to make it to the soldiers' transport under his own power. There was seven, eight other Vosians crammed into the little shuttle, all coated in grime and crush injuries, all staring out at what was left of their home. They glanced Sarristec's way as he got on board but there was no recognition there. No doubt he was just as dirty as they were, everything unique and special buried under filth.

Good. That was good. The soldiers had freed him from the wreckage. Anonymity would free him from . . .

Reprisals? Recriminations? _Guilt_?

Settling awkwardly against the bulkhead, he put his head in his hands, hiding his face just to be sure. Free to make a fresh start, that was it. A fresh start without having to fear the misguided anger of those who would not understand that he too had been betrayed. Because there would be such people. There always were.

So he would be Sarristec of Vos no longer. He was Zacarii, lucky survivor, victim like all the rest. Just another lost nonentity, blasted back to square one.

A mech to whom the only way was up.

 

* * *

**Aratoq Tower**

**Red Ridge District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _Causality estimates are still climbing as rescue teams continue to scour the ruins for survivors. Current reports indicate that seventeen thousand people have been brought to temporary shelters on safe ground to the north of the Kahlian Ridge where they are receiving emergency treatment. There are now over three thousand Defence Directorate and Civic Guard officers in the region with more expected to be sent in tomorrow morning. Word on the ground is that ongoing hostilities with the remains of the Vosian army are winding down following yesterday's pitched battle at the Coppermount fortress. Sporadic fighting is continuing in Tarn, impeding the rescue effort in several key sectors, but there are reports from both cities of military units voluntarily standing down or surrendering –”_

“Why the scrap are you stuck back here on your own?” Gauun demanded, putting his head through the doorway with a scowl.

“Shut up.” Aratron did not look away from the newsfeed. He could not. For as long as the report had been running, he had been standing there, fixated on every picture of death and destruction, trying to . . .

He wasn't sure what. Understand it? Grasp the scale of it? Imagine what it was like for those who woke up to find their homes blown down around them, their friends gone? All of those things. The things you were supposed to do with tragedy. Empathise. Feel sorry about it. Grieve for people you'd never known. The things you were supposed to feel before getting on with life like nothing had happened.

“It's on all the 'feeds out here, too,” Gauun pointed out uncertainly, failing to keep quiet because, well, because it was Gauun, “You don't have to watch it alone . . .”

“Yeah, and I don't have to watch it surrounded by people going, 'well, this will put a bit of a dent in my investments and no mistake. Another tube of Hiverin Special, anyone?' either.”

“None of them talk like that . . .”

Aratron shut his mouth tightly.

“ – _extensive ramifications in the political sphere. Questions are being asked at the highest level as to how the situation was allowed to deteriorate into all-out war. Already, there have been calls for many high-ranking officials to resign. In Kalis and Prodium, protesters have taken to the streets demanding immediate elections. The standing governments are known to have supported Vos and to have helped the Vosian Conclave block disarmament proposals put to the High Council –”_

“D'you remember Xennatron? Same batch as me?” Aratron shuttered his optics to block out the images of banners and slogans. “He was the first one to call me Wheels after you. Made Merchant Guild in less than seven stellar-cycles? He set up in Vos. Stellar-cycles ago now. Haven't seen the guy since we were protoed. And we didn't have anything in common except batch. . .” He trailed off, hissing. “And now all I can think is, was he in there? Did he get out or is he . . . is he dead? All those people and I'm just imagining this one mech . . .”

“But that's . . .” Gauun moved closer behind him. He reached out, almost touching, then thinking better of it. “That's just psychology, right? Association – uh, cognitive filtering. Picks out what you know first. It's normal, yeah?”

“I don't even know if he was still working there. No idea what kind of person he was. No idea what kind of person any of them were, except what everyone thinks about Vosians and Tarnians.”

This time, Gauun put his hand on Aratron's shoulder. “Hey, it's OK. Really. I get it. This is . . . glitch it, there aren't words for this stuff. This . . . slag like this isn't supposed to happen. No one's supposed to die like that. Pit, how many people have you ever heard of dying like that? I heard once about this kind of organic turbo rat out on one of the colonies, lives and dies in the space of a quartex. How does that even work? How does it get anything done? That's not how life's supposed to work. And then this . . .”

Aratron reached up and slapped his own hand across Gauun's. He took the hint this time and fell silent.

“ – _coming in of renewed riots in Tagen Heights following clashes between Tarnian and Vosian freighter crews. The fighting appears to have spilled out of the dockyards and is spreading down into the city wards. Civic Guardsmechs are in attendance but their numbers are drastically reduced given commitments in the disaster area itself. More on these events as they develop.”_

“Sorry,” Aratron said quietly.

“What for?”

“For . . . I don't know. Telling you to shut up.”

“You always tell me to shut up.”

“I just . . . those people out there . . . not now. Not now.”

Gauun's fingers twitched. “Then I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you to this stupid party in the first place. I don't know most of these people. I don't like 'em much either. They don't care about art. Weird. All the money they spend on it and I don't think any of them really get it at all. But it's the boss-mech's show and he wants – wanted – to show me off, I guess. A bit. My work, anyway. And I wanted to have someone to talk to – slag. You know that. It doesn't matter. You don't want to be here, I don't want to be here and I'm just talking to say something because . . .”

“Because that's what you do.” Aratron didn't – couldn't – smile. But he would have done, if they'd been somewhere else and the newsfeed was not showing what it was.

“ _Following the Defence Directorate's seizing of the orbital refineries formally under the control of Vosian interests, the Altihex Polity has petitioned the High Council for permission to take over running the operation. Given the extensive nature of the facilities in question, however, it is likely that there will be considerable competition for their future ownership. A tense stand-off between a squadron of Air Guardians and the crew of the primary Tarnian refinery is now entering its second hecta-cycle. The crew are refusing to stand down and allow the military to take them off. They have deployed a number of weapons that greatly exceed the strictures on armaments aboard civilian orbital platforms. Analysts have suggested that they represent clear evidence of how far Tarn had flouted the Inter-State Accords on a far deeper level than previously suspected.”_

"Do you want to leave?” Gauun asked tentatively, “I mean, leave the party properly. Go somewhere else. Um. Somewhere you want to be.”

“I know what you meant. Thanks. But you can't just run out on your patron, can you?”

“He'll understand. He's very . . . understanding.”

“Really?”

“I dunno. I hope he is. Especially since my last design went horribly wrong. Really bad day. Turns out too much high-grade makes me thing orange on amber on orange chrome is a good idea.”

Shrugging off Gauun's hand, Aratron half turned around. “The world has gone crazy, more people than I've ever met are dead and you're making stupid colour-scheme jokes?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” He flung his arms wide, the wheels in his legs jittering on their axles. “I can't do anything about this. You can't. We can't.”

Which was true. Even Ibriina and all the wealth and power of his great Line couldn't bring back the dead. So why shouldn't he carry on with his party? Why shouldn't all his Elite friends carry on worrying about their investments and swilling high-grade?

“You know what they said when they turned me down for medic training?” Aratron asked, fixing his optics on the wall, “They said Cybertron had enough medics. Didn't need any more. Wasn't worth training someone who wasn't in the top eight percent unless I wanted to go into the military. Better to be a bodyworker, because that's what people wanted.” He waggled his fingers. “That's what everyone's always told me. I've got the kind of hands people want. Not that they need.” The newsfeed was back to images of the craters. He looked at them and slumped a little. “Wonder what they'd say now.”

“That you couldn't get trained fast enough to make a difference there. That Racetrack still needs you. That people will still want bodyworkers when this is all over. And there's no point glaring at me because it's not going to change any of that.”

“All right! Point taken.” Aratron thumped him on the shoulder. “You want me to watch this out there with you? Fine. Why not? It's not like that'll make any difference either.”

“Right! So come help me clear Ibriina out of Skyiom Blend. He can afford it and we need to stop you feeling guilty over things that aren't your fault. So come on!”

Gauun grabbed Aratron and physically dragged him to the door. The last thing he caught from the newsfeed before he was pulled back out into the party was that, in a shock move, Polyhex had instituted a massive scale-back in its weapons stockpiles.

 

* * *

**Virulex District**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

 

He was alive!

Probably. The presence of sensory input – sound, light, pressure – suggested that was the case. On balance, continued awareness was a reasonable indicator of continued life. The clues added up, so to speak.

So yes, he was alive. Which was more than he could say for the mech lying next to him, with arms blown off and chest caved in. That was lucky. Lucky for him. Not for the mech. Obviously.

He struggled to get up. The ground shifted around him. Which made sense. He had been in a residential block when whatever it was happened, so the 'ground' had likely been there as well, or holding 'inside' up or being the roof.

Whatever it was that had happened. Yes. Except it was pretty obvious what had happened, wasn't it? Viilon hadn't listened to him. Hadn't stopped anything. And the Vosians had pulled the trigger. Boom. And of course Viilon's logic would have come up with the obvious answer. Double boom. All hail the might of the Shockwave.

Should have killed him when he had a chance. Not that he had had a chance. Being in the same room as Viilon was not an opportunity to kill him. Likely it wouldn't have solved anything anyway. Someone would have blamed it on the Vosians and everything would just have gone to the Pit faster. Bad idea. Stupid idea.

Pointless line of thought. It had happened. They had blown it all up. Game over. Everyone lost. Obvious outcome. Easy to predict. Success. Yay.

Someone's face was tangled in his foot. Just the face, blown clean out of the head. Optics shattered, mouth gaping. Big. Probably a tank. That was funny. The scrawny investigator survives and the big tough tank gets smashed to bits. Little, little bits.

His laugh did not sound good. Had his voice been damaged? There was dents all over him. Broken internals. Some oil leakage. If it was his oil. It might not be. His forensics package seemed to be offline and his eyes were still crackling with static so he couldn't tell right off. Better save a sample for analysis later.

Was Viilon still alive?

Hypothesis: as the logic-worshipping head of a cult of unhindered scientific advancement that had taken a broken city, remade it, then made it extremely powerful before getting it exploded, Viilon had the wherewithal and technical know-how to construct some sort of shelter from even the worst bombs.

Antithesis: given that Tarn had, in fact, been exploded, there were obvious flaws in Viilon reasoning that meant such a shelter was not a dead certainty nor guaranteed to have worked out properly.

Synthesis: pending. More evidence required.

That's what he needed to do. Get more evidence. Look for clues. Dig up the dirt. Get to the gears of the matter. Go on the trail again!

Yes. The rearrangement of the local topography was going to make this harder than it might otherwise have been. But what was life without challenge? And it was the same matter, after all. Just . . . rearranged. There would be a clue, a trail, a lot of dirt.

One great big wide gaping open lot of dirt –

Oh yes. He still had a face on his foot.

He shook his leg vigorously until the offending article detached and bounced and clinked away across the former-tower, current-pile-of-rubble.

That was better.

After a micro-cycle of processor-burning thought, he decided that following where it fell was as good a direction to start in as any other.

You had to be methodical about these things, else what was the point?

 

* * *

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

“This is intolerable! How much longer are you intending to keep me here?” Haacano did not stop driving up and down the room to shout at the Temple guardsmechs barring the door. His turret tracked them as he turned, his barrel glaring. “It has been two days! I am a ranking official and I –”

“Not any more,” Elita said bluntly, cutting loudly across the rant, “Any rank you possessed has been abolished by the expulsion of Tarn from the High Council. As has been explained – repeatedly – you are being held by request of the Magnus' Office pending investigation of and judgement on the actions of the Tarnian government –”

“The Tarnian government?!” He shot into biped form so fast his body shrieked. “The Tarnian government reacted to AN ATTACK! Vosian missiles were already BURNING MY HOME TO SLAG when we fired back! Are we to be judged for trying to DEFEND OURSELVES?!

Utterly unmoved, her arms at her sides, Elita looked him in straight in the optic. “ _Naturally_ the Vosian government is _also_ under scrutiny. You are not being singled out and you are not being victimised and my mechs are here as much for _your safety_ as to keep you in here. While you are shouting at us all day long in here, Red Watch and the Civic Guard are busy outside keeping Tarnians and Vosians from killing _each other on the streets_.”

Haacano's face quivered with barely contained rage. That he contained it at all was something of a minor miracle. But he did and slowly the anger drained from his frame, flared plates and snarling tracks settling back down. He folded his arms and opened his mouth.

Before he could say anything, Elita continued, “Permission has been granted for you to receive approved visitors. I suggest that you address any questions you may have to them.” She stepped aside to allow a slender golden figure to enter.

“Xaaron!”

The Emirate acknowledged Haacano with a slight nod, then spoke to Elita. “May we have some privacy?”

She did not look happy about the idea. “If you wish, Emirate. We will be outside.”

The guardmechs trooped out after her, masked and impassive as always. What they thought of it all was anyone's guess. As soon as the doors shut behind them, Haacano stepped eagerly forward. “Xaaron, please tell me you're here to –”

He stopped as the other mech held up a hand. “I am here,” Xaaron began evenly, “on behalf of my government. They are considering their response to the developing situation and feel that you may be able to offer some insight into how events may continue.”

“Xaaron . . .” Haacano repeated bemusedly, “I'm certain you know more about what's going on than I do! All I've had are these damn newsfeeds! You're the first reasonable person I've seen since – What do you want from me? I haven't even been allowed to try to contact _my_ government!”

Xaaron looked past him at the engravings in the walls. His optics slid across to the image of Atraplex rising from the Iron Sea and he hissed quietly. “Do you realise that you are probably the only member of your government left alive?”

“What?” The tank's mouth dropped open. “I . . . that can't be true. I assumed – there were contingencies. Surely someone has – there must be someone!”

“If there is, they have not been located. The most we have managed to find – by which I mean, the most the combined efforts of the Defence Directorate and the global diplomatic channels have been able to find – is an operational overseer in charge of the Simfur occupation. Who is understandably perturbed by the idea that she has just outlived everyone further up the chain of command.”

“This is not a time for jokes!”

“Who's joking?” He walked over and traced the line of fins along Atraplex's tail. “The point is that there is no one left to speak for the people of Tarn. Or Vos. We haven't been able to find a single surviving member of the Conclave either.”

“But that's . . . there must be someone. I cannot be . . .”

“It would seem you can. You and Graviitus appear to be the only ones left to represent your peoples. And to be held accountable for their actions.”

Haacano came up beside him, urgently bright optics reflected in the golden metal of the wall. “What are you saying?”

Xaaron hissed again. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“So we _are_ to be punished for defending ourselves? And all the while, the scavengers strip-mine everything left behind. Oh yes, I know the Altihexians are already trying to take the Vosian refineries. How long until someone goes after our energon reserves? Will they even bother to wait for Council permission?”

“Nova Cronum at least will be doing all in its power to ensure that the focus remains on helping the survivors,” Xaaron told him tiredly.

Haacano rolled his tracks derisively. “Please. As if any state is going care about the fate of my people when there are fuel and technology reserves for the taking!” He swept his arm in a great, cutting arc. “No wonder you wouldn't all stand with us against Vos! This is the best outcome you could have hoped for! Now we're both ripe for the picking and to the Pit with everyone who has died –”

“Did you hear about Polyhex?”

Xaaron’s interruption threw him off mid-gesticulation. What had been a furious stride forward became a stumbling step. “What?”

“Polyhex. I assume you must have since you have been paying attention to the ‘feeds. They’re destroying their photon missile stocks. Not just vowing to scale-back their stockpiles. They are actually and publicly dismantling them. Every last one of them. The Stanix Parliament is voting on an action to halve their missile stocks in their entirety. There are a dozen similar proposals being discussed across the planet. If the Prodium government doesn’t go through with it, they will likely be dragged screaming from office.” Xaaron drew his forefinger back from the engraving. “Tarn and Vos have appalled the world. That could yet mean an atrocity on this scale will never be allowed to happen again.” Walking slowly past a depiction of the Fall of Cronum, he circled around the room before facing Haacano again. “It will certainly mean no sympathy for those responsible.”

The Tarnian shifted uncomfortably. Whatever righteous indignation had fuelled his earlier outbursts had drained from him now. “I . . . Xaaron, I cannot . . . I represent my people, I did not decide their path. You cannot hold _me_ responsible for everything that . . .”

“I do not. Broadly speaking, my government does not. But soon the initial horror will be over and the reality of life without the Vos/Tarnian fuel reserves will start to sink in and then it really won't matter whether you had any control over what happened or not. As I said, you and Graviitus are the only ones left to _be_ held responsible.”

“But . . .” Haacano stood there, utterly lost, the full meaning of Xaaron's words finally working its way under his armour. All the pride and bluster of the seasoned politician faded, leaving a lost old mech with no idea what he was supposed to do next. “It . . . it was never supposed to go this far,” he whispered hollowly.

“Yes.” Xaaron shuttered his optics. “That was exactly what Graviitus said.”

 


	5. Small Differences

**Refugee Camp**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

“If we can't be certain this is the last of them, can we are least be sure that this is most of them?”

Megatron stared down at the rows of temporary shelters stretching across the wasteland below them, his mouth set in a grim line. A few micro-cycles of silence passed before he responded to the Magnus' question. “Ravage?”

“The refugees account for seventeen percent of the combined populations of Vos and Tarn,” the lieutenant stated blandly from his position at his commander's side, “Considering the size of the areas that remain intact or at least accessible, the analysts are saying this represents the kind of numbers they would expect.”

Everyone looked over the side of the hover platform, each no doubt performing their own mental calculations about how bad those numbers were. Ravage looked up at Megatron, contemplating the movements of his optics and the minuscule changes in his expression.

“We've allocated shelters as the refugees have arrived,” Optrion observed, probably just to say something, “There hasn't been time to work out how best to distribute them outside of prioritising the wounded . . .”

“So we can expect a certain amount of . . . friction.” Deca Magnus nodded solemnly. “It's unavoidable I suppose.”

“Would you expect them to just lie down and give up their differences?” Megatron said, not quite snapping.

The blue and red mech moved fractionally, his gaze rising to meet the horizon. “No. I would not. It is pointless, a complete waste of energy and a depressing failure to learn anything from this atrocity but I fully expect the factionalism and fighting to continue. The best we can hope for in the short term is that the need to care for the injured will outweigh the need to cause more damage.”

“Forgive me, sir.” The Civic Guardsmech at the back of the platform overlaid the landscape with icons and statistics as she spoke. “but we are already seeing instances of sporadic violence between the relocated civilians.”

“I did say it was the _best_ we could hope for.”

Optrion spoke up again. “I spoke to the engineers this morning. They think they can bring the top strata online and generate some more robust housing even though the local control linkages are decayed.”

“How exactly would that help?” Megatron demanded.

“Better accommodation. It help ease tensions. It would certainly aid the recovery of the injured.”

“No amount of domestic comforts are going to _ease tensions_. We need to separate the Vosians from the Tarnians.”

“So we can replicate the stand off that created this mess?” The Magnus almost sneered. “We cannot expect these people to cooperate willingly but equally we cannot just accept their hostility. We are not going to have the resources to create two camps.”

Megatron's hands twitched. Ravage slunk aside as he stepped over to talk quietly and fiercely to the taller mech. “If we do not separate these people, there is going to be more death. The anger – it will not go away with a few words.”

“Of course not. But for the moment at least we need to do this on the ground, not by drawing new lines on the maps.”

The phrase hit home and Megatron frowned. “So, what? We put a soldier at every door to guard against arguments?”

“Soldiers and Guardsmechs,” Deca corrected. His fingers drew lines over the paths between the shacks. “Visible patrols, roving medical teams. Enough to reinforce that we are here to help and that we will not tolerate continued violence.”

“So they can resent us rather than each other?”

“If that is what it takes.”

“That will not help us when it comes to getting them fuel and repairs.” Optrion drew his own lines over the camp. “Any infrastructure we put in will be limited. We're going to have to hand supplies out by hand. We need their cooperation –” He broke off, distracted by something below them.

“Another reason not to split the refugees, sir,” the Guardsmech said, “Central distribution will be easier.”

“And bring the two sides together even if they are actively trying to avoid one another.” Megatron snarled dismissively. “We'll be forcing the conflict on them!”

The Magnus rounded on him. “You seem determined to have us believe conflict is unavoidable. At least if we set the location for distribution –”

“We are not talking about some quaint local dispute or a sporting event that needs marshalling! These people have watched their friends and brothers burn to nothing!”

“I am well aware of that! Please do not assume I don't appreciate what is going to happen here. But whether they like it or not, we are going to need them to cooperate with us and with one another –”

“That is optimism beyond the realm of sanity!”

Ravage could only agree and made a cursory assessment of the Magnus' physical vulnerabilities. Megatron had moved even closer to Deca now, passion overriding protocol. If this disturbed the other mech, he did not show it and his response was delivered with calm sincerity. “No. It is a goal that we must achieve or this has all been an appalling, unforgivable waste.”

Megatron backed up, hissing. Slowly, his anger ebbed. “Perhaps. Yes. A . . . noble goal.”

“A practical one.”

“Not in the short term. Whatever you say about keeping them apart, that is exactly what you propose we do, one fight at a time.”

“At least that way some of them might realise they are in the same –”

“Would you excuse me, Magnus, Commander, sirs?” Optrion asked suddenly, “I need to attend to something.”

And without another word, he jumped off the platform.

 

* * *

 

It was not the only fight he had seen. But it was the one furthest from anyone else who could break it up and the one that looked the most one-sided: three heavily built hexes against a lone blue mech, pounding away at him with their claws and tails.

Optrion aimed his fall just behind the larger of the three, flaring his armour as make-shift ailerons. He struck hard, throwing up a cloud of dust and jarring every system in his body. Luckily, the shock of his arrival stunned the hexes long enough for him to recover the use of his motors and by the time they started to react, he was already moving.

He grabbed the biggest of the three first, catching him around the shoulders and flinging him bodily into a nearby wall. The nearest of his two friends shrieked in anger and stabbed at the interloper with his tail, unfurling a wicked spike. Optrion shifted easily around the inexpert attack, battered the tail away and drove a fist at the owner's unguarded optic strip. It connected with an unpleasant crunch.

The remaining hexe took advantage of being as-yet untargeted and, leaving the blue mech lying in a pool of his own oil, circled around behind Optrion. He sprang as the soldier was busy pulling his fingers out of his friend's face, using all his legs to execute a tremendously powerful leap that would have propelled him squarely on to Optrion's back. Would have, if Optrion had not spun aside at the last instance and allowed one hexe to collide with another.

The first attacker got back on his feet and faced him warily, one arm hanging loose and useless at his side. His four optics contracted to points, flicking to his groaning comrades and back again.

“Stay there,” Optrion advised. Keeping careful watch on the hexes, he walked slowly backwards to the blue mech's side and knelt. The instant he looked down, the big hexe surged forward. Without looking up again, he raised his right arm and launched a shock grenade from just behind his wrist. The grey disc hit the hexe in the chest and he went down squawking and spasming.

The blue mech's injuries were extensive but thankfully not life threatening. He was larger than average, a flyer from his design, and that size had undoubtedly let him survive the worst of the beating. Not that it was much better than 'survive'. Closer examination showed that the mech's internal systems were responding in the slowest way possible. Which likely had something to do with the massive stretches of scorched and melted plating across his back. What was left of his wings hung limp and useless from his shoulders.

He moaned, voice corrupted with static as Optrion eased him on to his side. “No . . . please . . .”

“It's all right. I'm here to help. Just try and stay calm.”

Orange optics slowly focused on Optrion's face. “Who . . . ?”

“I'm here to help,” he repeated, “Can you move?”

“I . . . yes. Yes.” Joints grinding, the flyer managed to struggle to his knees. “Th-thank you.”

“Vosian scum!” shouted the big hexe, surging forward

“Sir.” Optrion lifted his arm again. The Tarnian slammed to a halt, throwing up his claws defensively. “Thank you. Just give this mech some space and then we can all go about our business in peace.”

Worried faces were emerging from the surrounding shelters, no one quite committing to forming a crowd yet but everyone eager to see what was going on. Some started working their way around to join the three attackers and he could only hope that they would not want to follow their example.

“I . . . my friends –” The flyer abruptly reached out for Optrion's hand. “They're hurt! I was trying to get help when – I . . .” He shrank back, looking fearfully at the hexes.

Optrion took his hand and gently helped him up. “I have medical training. Show me where they are and I'll do what I can, at least until we can get a proper team to them.”

“We have wounded too!” cried the hexe with the spiked tail.

“Yeah!” echoed one of the mechs who had been gravitating towards them. “We've got people hurt all over here!”

“Why're you helping a fragging Vosian and not us?” the big hexe put in, emboldened by the support.

Optrion looked over at him and held his gaze, expression neutral. “Because you attacked him.”

The crowd shifted, still angry, no longer quite sure of where it was aiming that anger. The three hexes bristled, flaring and snapping. The one with the spike jerked forward –

Without anti-grav lift and landing so the full force of the impact resounded across the immediate area, Megatron slammed down in front of them. None of his weapons were active but that hardly mattered. His sheer mass was more than enough to make the Tarnians back off.

“There will be no. More. Fighting.” The words ground from his mouth, vocaliser barely containing the simmering fury that showed in his optics. He glared down the hexes then swung around to address the rest of the crowd. Above him, the hover platform slowly descended, the Magnus leaning forward and resting his hands lightly on the guard rail.

“We will help you all,” Megatron declared, “regardless of where you are from! You will all receive the same aid. You will all be held to the same standard. There will be no. More. Killing. There will be no. More. Violence. You will not harm the injured! You will not squabble over who is to be treated first! You will not be treated better than the Vosians and they will not be treated worse than you!” He stood there for a moment, as if daring anyone to contradict him. The echoes of his voice chased between the shelters and the absolute silence of the crowd.

In ones and twos, the Tarnians started to slip away. Optrion saw the spiked hexe pause, eyes flaring, before disappearing with a contemptuous flick of the tail.

Megatron's feet crunched on the uneven ground. “Is this one all right?”

Optrion glanced at the flyer, who was leaning heavily and awkwardly against him. “He should be. Thank you.”

“Hn. Wouldn't want you to think I discouraged your acts of suicidal morality.” His optics were slowly fading back to yellow. He crossed his arms, studying the shelters and the people watching from the shadows. “Even if you can't actually break up every fight on your own.”

“Perhaps not, sir,” Optrion acknowledged with the slightest of shrugs, “I will let you know if I come up with a more general solution.”

“Good. You there. Where are these friends of yours?”

The flyer stared at him. “A – ah – th-they're east of here. I c-can show you.”

“Show me,” Optrion said firmly, “With your permission, Commander? I might be able to save the medical teams the trip out.”

“Very well. You are excused duty acting ballast on a hover platform. Report in to the coordination hub when you've assessed the situation.”

“Yes sir!” He could not actually salute and support the flyer at the same time but he tried to put the intention into his voice. Moving carefully, he began guiding the blue mech away, plotting a path through the camp. Behind them, the platform slowly descended to retrieve Megatron.

As it touched down, Optrion paused and glanced back. “Commander – the Magnus is right: splitting the Vosians and Tarnians up is the worse option. We'll never prove to them that we're treating them all the same if they can't see us doing it.”

 

* * *

 

Megatron stared after Optrion until he and the Vosian were lost from sight among the shelters.

His fingers curled and uncurled compulsively. It was a habit he had developed a long time ago, when control of his emotions started to become important. The movement substituted for whatever he actually wanted to do, which was usually an inappropriate display of violence. Likely this had saved numerous people from an inconvenient level of damage.

Optrion's words chased from processor to processor, his mind working to dissect the Iaconain's observations. Megatron had learnt to value his subordinate's observations. For a temple-minded mech, the truck had a sound tactical sense and a deep streak of stubborn loyalty that put the soldiers he served with first. Off-world, those combined to make him a useful counterbalance to the more mission-focused members of the battalion. Now those same instincts were leading him to observations on what would serve the refugees and if he was anywhere as near the mark as he usually was . . .

It was not that Megatron objected to being questioned. Only an idiot failed to accept judgement on his plans from other perspectives. No. The issue was that he _knew_ the people they were dealing with. He _knew_ that violence between the survivors was an inevitability and his very spark rebelled against anything that would perpetuate that violence.

Yet . . . Optrion was correct. Neither side would accept that they were being given equal attention if they did not see it. Of course they might not even then, but divided they would certainly start to make claims of unfairness. And the Magnus was right as well – if no attempt was made at reconciliation was made, thousands would have died achieving nothing. That too was unacceptable.

Ravage appeared at his side, examining him curiously. Megatron was aware of the Magnus and the Guardsmechs on the platform behind him, no doubt wondering why he was staring into the middle-distance. Let them wonder.

“I assume the Lieutenant Commander will not be returning with us?” Ravage purred rhetorically. He would have monitored the entire exchange and would already have fed the relevant information to the communications net.

“No. It seems he feels the need to remind me he joined up in the medical division.”

“You seem . . . troubled.” The black quad hesitated over the observation. It was rare for him to voice such comments in the open. Perhaps this time it was simply too obvious to ignore.

Megatron said nothing. He allowed his hands to relax and jerked his head up. The sky above was full of drifting dust clouds and the smoke rising from the burning energon fields. He cycled through different wavelengths and resolutions, tracking the mingling particulates.

Central distribution would be easier. He stiffened, the thought taking him off-guard. The idea that formed around it was equally unexpected but in moments he was sure of its worth. Its simplicity alone might be enough to make it successful.

“Come.” He marched back to the platform, Ravage following at his heels.

The Magnus stepped aside to allow him back on board. “This diversion is over?”

“Yes. Pilot: take us back to the hub. I need to address the camp.”

 

* * *

 

Ravage opened the emergency channel as ordered and moved aside to allow Megatron to step up on to the transmission dais. A swift check of the ping-backs from across the camp confirmed that his image would be broadcast to every working receiver in the area, whether the owners wanted it to or not. There were benefits to etheric warfare that sometimes outmatched those of the physical kind.

Deca Magnus walked slowly around the dais. He had said little since Megatron announced his intentions and his posture was guarded, giving little clue as to what he was thinking. Purely for fun, Ravage painted him with the outcome of his earlier tactical assessment, picking out the lock points for his armour, the slightly slow rotator on his lower left arm, the sub-optimal sensor coverage on his right flank.

“Are you sure doing this will be helpful?” the Magnus asked, sending the question under heavy privacy shields.

Megatron looked sideways at him, hands clasped behind his back. “You aren't?”

“I am not certain. I want to know if you are.”

“Certain that it will work? No. Certain that it must be tried? Completely.”

The Magnus looked away, at the feeds covering the walls with images of the refugees and the people trying to help them. He nodded, once, sharply. “The arrangements the Civic Guard is responsible for have been made. I suggest you go ahead and make your announcement.”

Adjusting his stance minutely, Megatron triggered the dais.

“Attention. I am Field Commander Mega Mech Tron of Defence Directorate Off-World Battalion Four, acting commander of all Defence Directorate forces operating in this region. I am addressing you from this camp's coordination hub. Over the past nine days, my soldiers have been working to extract all surviving citizens of Vos and Tarn and bring them here for medical processing ahead of rehousing. At this time, we and the Civic Guard emergency response units are still attempting to deliver proper treatment to all those who require it. Further – it is unlikely that rehousing will be possible in the immediate future. The entire region has been compromised by the destruction of Tarn and Vos' superstructures. We do not know where you will be able to go.

“Therefore, for now, this camp is your home. It is also ours. We will continue our efforts to care for you and will live beside you until such time as a more permanent solution can be found. We will live beside you and you will live beside one another.

“I am aware of the tensions that exist in this camp. Many among you are attempting to maintain the divisions that caused the war that brought you here. Many have chosen to continue fighting, even though those they fight are often incapable of defending themselves and are innocent of the crimes for which they are attacked.

“This is what I say to that: as hard as it may be for you to accept, you have suffered equally and you shall be helped equally. If you wish to respond to that by continued hatred, that is your choice. But from this moment on, fuel supplies will be divided precisely. Distribution nodes have been set up at key points across the camp. You will have already been made aware of their locations. Energon rations will be distributed from these nodes to two people at a time. To one Tarnian and one Vosian at a time. There will be guards at each of these nodes to prevent any coercion. What you do with the fuel once it has been collected is up to you. As I said, it is your choice. Waste it on maintaining divisions and putting up walls if you wish.

“Just remember that you will need to cooperate the next time you start to run dry. Megatron out.”

The dais powered down. Megatron shuttered his optics briefly. The Magnus crossed his arms. Ravage lingered with his mind in the networks, collating feedback from the broadcast points, the faint beats of receivers being struck in anger or left to fizz into silence.

All optics turned to the feeds and the people they showed and everyone waited to see what would happen next.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Sorry for the prolonged hiatus in updates - I've only just got around to building up my reserve of chapters again. This is quite a draining story to write, as I'm sure you'll understand.  
> \- I don't have a specific design in mind for Deca Magnus, though I feel I should. He is a jet former though, so I suppose he must have some of the usual trappings of the form . . .


	6. Walking Wounded

**Refugee Camp**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

Optrion folded away his sub-fingers and withdrew his hand from the green and black flyer's chest, letting the panels seal up her endostructure. Her optics glowed briefly then settled back into dim quiescence.

“Will she be all right?”

He smiled across at the blue mech anxiously watching from the other side of the little dug-out hut. “She's going to be fine. I've put her into restorative stasis-lock. If you make sure she gets a steady supply of fuel for the next couple of days, she should make a full recovery.”

The blue mech – whose name was Cashcoui – relaxed a little, shoulders dipping in relief. His other friend, a smaller, stockier flyer in yellow, was already slumped in peaceful shut-down at his side, the temporary patches Optrion had fitted across his cracked injection systems already merging with the lines of his torso. Left untreated, both would have been dead within the day but proper outside attention was all that was needed to fix them up.

He flexed his hands, relishing the opportunity to exercise his medical training. It felt good to remake rather than break. “Now then,” he said, standing up, let's take a look at you.”

Cashcoui grimaced but obediently sat down on the floor, where it would be easier to get a good look at the injuries to his back.

“Does your commander really mean it?” he asked as Optrion began probing the damage, “About only giving out fuel to a Vosian and a Tarnian together?”

“If Megatron says something, he usually means it.”

“But . . . they hate us. It won't work. No one will get any fuel.”

“Is hate stronger than hunger?”

“I . . . I don't know.”

“Then I suppose we'll find out together. Hm.”

The damage was, in some ways, more extensive than on the other two flyers. Whilst they had suffered heavy impact injuries from crashing, Cashcoui had taken the full brunt of a shock wave while in flight. Most of the panels on his back were warped out of shape, some burnt away entirely. It pushed the limits of what his systems could hope to restore and was busy draining all their resources into the attempt.

“Can you feel anything in this?” Optrion asked, digging delicately at a blackened actuator.

“Not much. Most of it's just dead metal.”

That was hardly a surprise. Heat wounds were always the worst for sensory loss. And then there were the wing mounts. Burnt away almost completely, what was left fused down to the most basic level. It would require far more than a patch job and field repairs to restore function there.

He stepped back, considering the pattern of the damage before glancing at the green and yellow flyers. “You tried to shield them from the heat-flash.”

Cashcoui laughed harshly. “I wasn't trying to be a hero. We were all going down, knocked out of the air, and I . . . I spread my wings as wide as I could. Thought it might protect me.”

“And them?”

“I guess so. Wasn't really thinking.”

“It's a good instinct.”

“Yeah. Lot of good it did.” He turned his head, looking over his shoulder. “It's bad, isn't it?”

“It's not good. But it's not irreparable. I can give you a set of medical packages that should help seal up some of these gaps.”

“All right . . . but . . . what about my wings?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Will I ever fly again?”

Optrion hissed and laid a hand on Cashcoui's arm. “ The wound is deep. Likely it will need an infusion of active proto-matter. Even if you went for physical reconstruction, you would need to regrow the armatures.”

“And . . . you can't spare any 'matter. Can you?”

“I'm sorry. As bad as the damage is, it's not life-threatening. Given that . . .”

“Yeah.”

“Once this is all over, I am sure you will be able to –”

“Hah!” Cashcoui jumped to his feet, throwing off Optrion's hand. The thrusters in his legs flexed open and closed again. “I'm a low-grade cargo lifter. I'd never be able to afford that kind of repair. And there are hundreds more like me. No one would bother funding it for me.”

“Even if that's true, you could still go in for reformatting –”

“And never fly again?!” He stared at Optrion, aghast. “I'd sooner die!”

“I'm sorry.”

Cashcoui slumped again. “It's not your fault. Thank you for . . . for helping me. Really.”

“It's my duty,” Optrion told him. He let his diagnostic systems close down and then reached into one of his storage compartments. “Here.” He took out a canister. “This is battlefield energon. It packs more of a kick than standard fuel, so it should last a fair while. I'm going to hook it up to your friends with iso-locked feeds. No one else will be able to access it. I can't promise no one will try, but they won't be able to get it open without wasting the contents.”

The flyer took the canister, optics wide. “Th-thanks. You're sure you won't miss this?”

“I will, but I'm more efficient than a civilian. I'll cope. Just hold on to it while I pipe them in.”

He fished out a couple of feed tubes and fixed them to the canister before extending them to reach Cashcoui's friends. “As I said, it will be a couple of days before they're up and about. This is for you in the meantime.” The connections made, he handed Cashcoui a standard emergency ration, the same kind they had been giving out to all of the refugees on arrival. “Use it up slowly and don't move about much. Once this runs out, go to one of the distribution nodes.”

“And find a Tarnian willing to collect fuel with me instead of beating me up?”

“Yes. Don't worry. We'll get things calm. I promise.”

The Vosian put his head to the side. He looked at the fuel in his hands, then at the other two. “I don't believe you,” he blurted suddenly, “No – I mean – I believe you'll try but the Tarnians – they hate me. Us. They want us dead. Doesn't matter how clever your commander tries to be, he's not going to change that. And I can't fly away! I want to! I want to leave them alone and go somewhere they'll leave me alone but I can't! I can't.” He broke off, dropping heavily to the ground.

“Cashcoui . . . did you fire missiles at Tarn? Did you want their city levelled?”

“What? No!” His eyes were wide again. “I never . . . that was just . . . everyone was always saying how terrible the Tarnians were but I'm just a – a lifter! I wouldn't have . . . as long as they weren't bothering us – well, that's all we wanted. Them to leave us alone!”

“I think if I asked the same question of a lot of the Tarnians in this camp, I'd get the same answer. Maybe even from the people who attacked you. And don't forget: they now need your help to get fuel as much as you need theirs.”

Taking one last look at his patients, Optrion stepped out of the shelter and into the darkening night. Half a micro-cycle later, Cashcoui stumbled after him, grabbing hold of his arm. “Hey! Thanks. Again. Really. I . . . get it. What you're saying. I'll . . . try and do what your commander says. Sounds like he's trying. Maybe it's about time someone did.”

“Maybe.” Optrion gripped his hand for a moment. A gesture of solidarity. “I will try and see you again.”

“Thanks,” the flyer repeated.

“Now. If you don't mind, I think if I'm going to try and do what my commander says as well, I had better go and help a Tarnian or two.”

 

* * *

 

It was hard to stay out of sight, especially in the daytime. He had to skulk between the ramshackle shelters and makeshift living spaces, keeping close to the tilting walls and away from the camp's thronged thoroughfares, trying to move about as much as possible and so avoid the risk of being recognised. Layers of grime clung to every facet of his body but he dared not try cleaning them off. The dust of his city protected him. Without it . . .

Being flown in to the camp, he had imagined himself taking a position in organising the Vosian refugees, perhaps joining some form of committee of influential persons dedicated to rebuilding. They would need something of that kind, a group who could lead the survivors into restored fortunes. He would present himself as having been a humble adjutant, responsible for little in the old government but knowledgeable about its workings. He would impress with his understanding of due process and the practical requirements of forming a new leadership. And yes, he would have hidden talents as an orator that would gradually come to the fore. Rising to prominence would be but a matter of time.

Only there were no influential Vosians in the camp. No focal points around which the refugees were rallying and no one inclined to do so. Chaos ruled, people milling around in confusion when they were not huddled on the ground nursing debilitating injuries. Worse yet, they had to share the camp with the damned Tarnians. Brawls were a daily occurrence and the scatter-shot manner in which people were housed made it impossible for the two sides to avoid one another.

And then someone recognised him.

Sarristec hugged himself at the memory, pulling his body further into the meagre shade of an overhanding metal sheet. The big red and white workmaster half-rising, focusing through furiously working repair packages, optics narrowing, words forming in his mouth, the unmistakable beginnings of angry realisation on his face –

Sarristec had fled and not looked back, stumbling along walkway after uneven walkway until he was sure he was unseen again and was hopelessly lost. Only luck kept him from straying into a nest of Tarnians or colliding with a soldier or a Guardsmech. His mind filled with paranoia, his senses running hot and at cross-purposes.

It left him wandering in a kind of panicked delirium for a while, running from pursuit real or imagined until warning symbols flashed up in his vision, telling him insistently that he had nearly burnt through his fuel ration. So here he was, a scuttling turbo-rat hiding from the morning light, watching hungrily as people gathered around the knot of soldiers and their energon tank. There were maybe twenty refugees all told, both Vosians and Tarnians, congregating in groups of threes and fours on opposite sides of a rough circle of empty ground. The soldiers eyed them nervously, shooting encrypted messages between themselves and fiddling with their weapons systems. The refugees murmured, their disgruntlement clear. No one wanted to make the first move.

Clearly, the mech in charge of this fiasco was deranged. To inflict this nonsense of co-collection on them was an act of insanity as much as it was one of injustice. To expect them to cooperate with those barbaric murderers –

He shuddered again, this time from the pangs as his fuel pumps began struggling to find energon to circulate. Half a cube! That was, if not all he wanted, all he thought he would need to keep going. But he might as well have wished for one of the moons. No one would follow through with this absurd 'equality' notion. It was an insult! What true Vosian would debase themselves by acknowledging unity with some Tarn-born thug?

One of the Vosian refugees stepped hesitantly forward. A quad, wide-chested with a tail that trailed ragged wires and scars that dug deep into his shoulder blocks. He pawed the ground then took another step, loping out into the clearing but not approaching the soldiers yet. His green optic strip swung left and right before fixing on the largest group of Tarnians. He planted himself on his haunches and waited.

The Tarnians looked at each other. The Vosians too, several of them calling out to the quad to come back. He stayed his ground and kept staring at the mechs opposite, tail flicking. One of the Tarnians began to walk forward but was held back by his fellows, their voices rising in anger. The soldiers became fully alert, their private banter evaporating. One of them transformed her arm into a gun. Her captain glared at her. He did not tell her to disarm.

A truly enormous feme broke away from the Tarnian crowd. She too was shouted at but simply ignored the calls for her to stop. Her great bulk thumped forward, tracked feet pummelling the ground until she was standing an arm's length from the quad. Bits of her crude body actually hissed with relieved pressure as she settled to a stop.

The onlookers fell silent, not daring to move. Sarristec shuffled a little way out of his hiding place for a better view, in turns disgusted and astonished by what he was seeing.

The feme spoke first. Her voice, of course, was grating and rough. “How many cubes you need?”

“There are seventeen of us,” the quad told her, tail stilling, “including the ones who can't get out here.”

“That one each?”

“Yes. What about you?”

“Thirteen. But . . . some of us ain't very efficient. Seventeen of the size they hand out won't be enough.”

“I see. How many?”

Her hands, little more than huge clamps, opened and closed. “Twenty-one. Minimum.”

“Very well.”

“Yeah. Except . . .” She gestured at the other Tarnians. “They don't want to see you stockpiling. We're all weak. Some Vosian heavy gets to full power . . .”

“Yes.” The quad turned his head. “So we need four more people. I don't think that will be hard. Are you willing to wait a couple of cycles?”

The Tarnian actually laughed. “You think we got a choice here?”

“Not so much, I suppose. All right!” he shouted at the Vosians, “You heard! We can fuel four more. There must be someone nearby. Yeah – you hiding back there! Are you really going to run yourself empty over pride? What about you? And you – yes, you! You Vosian?”

Sarristec stared back at the quad in blind terror. He couldn't – the risk – the _Tarnians._

But his hunger won out and he dragged himself up, staggering to join the other refugees. If it were over quickly, if he got away before anyone really noticed him, then it would be fine. It would be. He'd be fuelled and it would be fine.

“There,” the quad said, “That's twenty-one.”

“Yeah,” the feme agreed, “Fine. Let's get this over with.”

Together, not quite at the same time and not quite in step, they went over to the soldiers. The captain put his hands on his hips. “Twenty-one cubes each. Sidetrack, fill 'em up.”

The soldiers started handing out the energon and Sarristec kept his optics lowered. Those around him were not really paying him any attention. They were too focused on the fuel, even those who had been rightly decrying the whole thing. That was good. They wouldn't notice him. It would be fine.

A sharp, startled noise made him glance sideways. And he nearly cried out in horror.

As smeared with dirt and grime as the rest of them, one claw snapped clean off, his face-plates twisted and his fine detail work crumpled and torn, Lord Myyoc was still eminently recognisable. He was poised precariously on his three intact limbs, tail rigid with shocked recognition. The former defence minister of Vos, reduced to a beast at bay. Different only from the former energy minister, perhaps, in responsibility for their situation.

Sarristec did not dare speak, or move, or do anything in case it provoked the other to give him away. Would that paralyse Myyoc too? If so, for how long? How long would it take to get the fuel and escape? What were the escape routes? Was the way clear behind him? He couldn't tell. His sensors were still failing him. The sky was lost to him. And if Myyoc did chose to –

“Here pal.” A boxy mech who might once have been brown held an energon cube out for him. “Don't use it all at once, hey?”

With trembling hands, Sarristec accepted the prize. There. That was it. Now to leave.

The mech's optics narrowed. “Hey,” he repeated, colder, “You look just like –”

“That's Myyoc!” He barely thought about what he was doing, what he was saying, just reacted, pointing, accusing, raising his voice as high and loud as it would go. “Lord Myyoc!”

It worked. Around them, people turned, seeking the source of the disturbance. Myyoc cringed, splaying his neck plates and skittering backwards. His mouth worked, trying to summon words. Too late.

“Myyoc?”

“Yeah, Myyoc!”

“The one who ran the Defence Ministry?”

“Yeah, that's him!”

“That's the slagger who said we'd be safe from Tarnian missiles!”

“He let them fire at Tarn!” Sarristec shouted over Myyoc's stuttering protests, “He did this! He's the reason we're in here!”

It was so easy. One cycle there was calm, the energon being shared out, a moment almost of accord between Tarn and Vos, the _unimaginable_ – the next, a dozen Vosians were shouting, raging, oblivious to the soldiers calling for order. Sarristec did not see who threw the first punch. Someone must have though because suddenly Myyoc was being assailed from all sides. There was no plan to it. No coordination. A stray blow knocked Sarrsitec over and the world spun around him, filled with noise and confusion and screams of pain.

His energon cube landed just out of reach. A foot cracked down on it, splintering one side, spilling the precious liquid. Desperately, he threw himself at it, managing to wrap his body around it and roll aside as more people homed in on the fight and the cause of the fight. Vosians, Tarnians too. _One of them! One of the people responsible! One of those who are to blame!_

He half-crawled, half ran away, clutching the broken cube to his chest. Behind him, Myyoc's screeches cut off and the soldiers opened fire.

 

* * *

 

**Refugee Camp – Eastern Approach**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

“Another two fights yesterday evening.”

“That's still six down on the day before.”

“Lot of people getting hurt.”

“And some starting to cooperate with each other. There are reports of people starting to share across the city divide. It is getting better.”

“At the moment. A little.”

Diatrion braked to a stop at the top of the rise, testing his suspension against the uneven terrain. “There is a difference between realism and pessimism, you know.”

Clutch slewed up behind him, transforming and crossing his arms. “S' that what you are? A realist?”

“I'm looking at the facts and drawing a realistic conclusion about how things are progressing. So yes.”

“Right, right. That's what it is. 'Realistic conclusion'. Not 'insane optimism'.”

“All I am trying to say is that treating the situation as being worse than it is will be as unhelpful as saying it's better.”

“And all I’m saying is that Vosians and Tarnians have been hatin' each other for longer than any of 'em can remember and that's not going to change just because Commander high-and-mighty Megatron orders 'em to stop.”

“You really don’t like him much, do you?” Diatrion observed, wheeling a little further so he could look down on the camp. It stretched for maybe a hundred hix in all directions, row after row of hollow cubes, built in all sizes to accommodate all kinds of people. In theory, everything was arranged on a standard grid pattern. Theory had not survived contact with reality however, and thanks to geography and hasty construction, the layout of the camp became increasingly confused the further out you got from the central hub. On the fringes, the shelters were being thrown up without the slightest concession to municipal planning.

“See this is why you’re the investigator and I’m just a lowly constable,” Clutch said, transforming back to truck mode and revving his engines, “That keen deductive insight o’ yours.” He steered north, following the curve of what was left of the road, Diatrion following with a soft chuckle. “S’ not exactly him, I suppose,” the Guardsmech went on, “Just soldiers. Don’t like them. Never have, never will.”

“We would never have been able to handle this without them.”

“They’re shooting people, Dia. I know it’s only stun charges and I know we’d probably be doing the same eventually but it’s what they do straight off.”

“To stop the fights you were complaining about.”

“How many people you know get up from a stun charge in a good mood?” Clutch rocked on his axles. “Military's fine for blowing up aliens but you don't want their sort on crowd control when it's actual people they're dealing with.”

“Actual people as opposed to aliens.” Diatrion let that hang in the air between them.

“You know what I mean! Those poor slaggers down there have lost everything. How do you expect them to act with a bunch of gun-modded tanks pushing them around?”

“Would they react any better if it were a lot of white and blues pushing them around? This is the situation we're in. We have to deal with it as it is.”

“I know that. Going to be hard, is all I'm saying.”

Diatrion chose not to point out that had been obvious from the start.

On the horizon hunched the still-burning ruins of Vos, the dull glow of the fires a lingering reminder of just how many had not been lucky enough to make it out, in any shape. The latest estimates suggested it would be another quartex before the ground cooled enough for anyone to enter the shattered core of the city. The energon fields? They would likely keep burning long after that. A million million atroleders of fuel in storage tanks and refinery tunnels, all of it feeding the inferno.

There would be no going home for the survivors. But there _were_ survivors. Hundreds, even thousands had been saved. As difficult as the days ahead would be, that was reason for at least a little optimism.

“What's that?” Clutch asked, breaking carelessly across Diatrion's train of thought.

His sensors were pointed at the opposite horizon, where the air was clearer and the distant lights were the perfectly ordinary kind. Diatrion followed his gaze, searching for whatever it was that had attracted his companion's attention.

It was not hard to find: a slab, sharp and black against the sky. Zooming in revealed its scale (immense) and its method of propulsion (a series of huge anti-gravity engines). The finer details matched with a Class Seven bulk transporter platform, prospector/refinery sub-type. A kind that hadn't seen service in mega-cycles, not since the last great drive to extract endo-Cybertronic energon. A museum piece.

Out-riders swarmed around it, a small army of helicopters and avir. Together, they made a truly impressive sight.

And the whole lot was slowly flying on a direct course for Vos.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Fun fact: I build playlists for my stories (fanfic or original) of songs that make me think about them, to cultivate the right atmosphere. Generally, I tend towards picking out songs for certain characters. Sarristec's is 'You're Gonna Go Far, Kid' by the Offspring. This chapter contains the scene it always makes me think of.


	7. Upheaval

**Refugee Camp**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

“Heave!” Megatron thundered, tightening his grip on the chain.

As one, they obeyed, every soldier in the line and the two Air Guardians towering on either side dragging at the grapples sunk into the crust fragment. It ground in its housing, lifting fractionally before mega-cycles of corrosion halted its progress.

“Again!” he roared, winding the chain around his hands another couple of times. Behind him, the others braced themselves afresh. “Now! Heave!”

That did it. With a great, grinding and crunching, the fragment finally came loose from its ancient prison. Working with the momentum, the Air Guardians bore the brunt of the weight, firing their jets. The piece of Cybertron's skin rose up and up, thicker than Megatron was tall. Immediately, the engineers sprang into action, driving gravity-repulse spars into the sides, which hummed into life to take the load, letting the jets haul it aside.

Megatron stood back to watch the fragment drift lazily away. More engineers and a horde of technicians scurried around him, swarming down into the chasm left behind. They busied themselves opening up ports in the ancient geological machinery, the technicians transforming and seamlessly interfacing into the walls. Soon, the fissure was full of humming silver boxes, faintly glowing in the darkness.

“Have to say,” said a bronze mech, coming up beside Megatron with holograms flickering around his hands, “this is looking a lot better than I expected. The surface linkages are corroded but the sub-structure is responding fine. And the fuel lines connecting out to the Tarn and Vos networks are pinging back as sound. Should be able to use that.”

“What for? I assumed this would all work off local planetary energon reserves.”

“The actual elevation will, sure, but we need something to power the pumps to draw it up into the mechanism. Shouldn't be a problem, we won't need much to get it going. The fires in the main fields haven't reached down to where those lines connect.”

“Very well.” Megatron nodded. “How long until you can begin?”

“We can get started right away. In fact . . .” The engineer checked some of his calculations with a frown. “We _should_ get started right away. The corrosion not going down as far as I expected means the geo-stasis response is kicking in already.”

“Understood.”

Triggering a communication channel, Megatron reached out to the immediate area.  _“All units: clear the uplift zone immediately. Squad six, hold the perimeter and prevent and onlookers getting too close. Ravage, lock sky-spy feeds with a three hix border.”_

His soldiers sprang into action, falling back as ordered and taking up new positions. He did not really expect any of the refugees to actually try getting close but it paid to be cautious and there were the observers – members of the Vosian and Tarnian military and a few civil officials – to consider. If something went wrong, he wanted them as far back as possible and not getting in the way while the engineers tried to fix it.

The bronze mech nodded, confirming that the area was clear to his satisfaction. He of course would need to remain on station with his technicians, monitoring their activity throughout the process. Megatron intended to be at his side throughout. He accessed the feed from the platforms hovering far overhead and examined the long, barren strip of land that had been chosen. It stretched, not quite entirely, from the far boundaries of one city to the next. Waste ground, abandoned by societies that had exhausted their natural resources, it contained very few existing structures and those were limited to ancient monitoring stations. Nothing anyone would consider a loss when they were subsumed.

The chatter between the technicians spiked. The engineer focused his holograms into a single monitoring sphere, routing in every facet of his mechs' activity. He wove a representation of the local sub-strata, a fraction of the great sleeping machinery of the planet, all tunnels and channels and vast, twisting columns. Icons flickered around them, almost too fast for even Megatron's senses to track.

Far below them, something groaned expansively. Lines of power flashed across the image, signalling that the pumps were running. The engineer flexed his hands. “All right. Generation online. Power levels rising. Commencing primary unlocking.”

The ground shook. Rattled. Megatron felt the minor seismic shifts of connection ports and panel-to-panel seals disconnecting. That, as he understood it, was the easy part. The entire area would now be unsafe, a minefield of loose geography. But in real terms, it was just the equivalent of putting feet on the ground. A necessary preamble to the main event, nothing more.

“Begin formation sequence,” the engineer ordered. His projection flickered and sparked. The technicians' cross-talk changed, becoming faster and more complex. Another shudder ran through the ground. Something rumbled, something deeper than anything awakened so far.

It happened all at once. There were reasons for that. The interplay of the mechanisms within the continental plates, the necessity of ensuring an even transformation. It was not simply a matter of elevating the surface. The entirety of the plate needed to be rebuilt, restructured, each part resting on the others and providing them with support. When they rose, they rose as one, a great tide of metal washing into the sky.

Pillars jumped up and curved into arches and spans. Walls and walkways were lifted around them, doorways falling naturally into place. Modules piled one after the other into whole buildings. Looking over the edge of the island of stillness at the centre of it all, Megatron caught glimpses of the voids left below being turned into yet more levels. Living quarters, maintenance bays, homes and infirmaries desperately needed, springing into being.

He knew many who looked down on technicians as a kind. With their boxy, immobile alternate forms and total lack of distinguishing features, they were as far from the ideal the fashion-setting elite cultivated as it was possible to get, never mind that any self-respecting labourer would sooner chop off their arms than inhabit such a defenceless frame. His own contempt had seldom been hidden. Never again after seeing this though. The ability to reshape the very planet, to raise towers from the ground . . . there was power there. True power, not just the exercise of strength, blow by blow –

Yet another shudder, far more violent than before. Their island was not still any more. Megatron barely kept his footing and it was only his thrust-out arm that saved the engineer from tumbling into one of the chasm his team had created. His optics were wide and fearful as he tried to restore his scattered projections. Around them, the buildings slewed and bent, their advance grinding to a stop.

“What is happening?” Megatron demanded, grip tight on the engineer's shoulder.

“Power loss. Vos-side pumps are shutting down. We've losing momentum.” He spun and shouted at the technicians, bombarding them through the ether. “Lock the structures! Seal everything!”

With a crash of bolts, the transformation ceased completely. The buildings stilled, fixed into shapes that were not quite right. They slanted and hunched, some of the openings distorted to the point of uselessness, some of the walkways collapsed to leave higher levels inaccessible. The grand new town, warped before it was finished.

Groaning, the engineer sank to his knees, extending knife-like probes from his fingers and driving them into the ground. For nearly two cycles, he was still like that, analysing, comparing readings with the technicians who, one by one, detached and climbed from the fissure. Megatron paced impatiently behind them, keeping his temper in check to let the them work.

Finally, the engineer stood up. “The structures are stable,” he said, “Mostly usable. There aren't any weak points, thank the Flame. We might be able to make some improvements on a case by case basis, interface directly with areas where the access points are functional. But we need balanced operation from both sides to effect large scale change and the Vos side is . . . dead. I'm not getting any reading from the inflow pipes. Either one of the controllers has burnt out or . . .”

“Or?” Megatron's voice turned deadly, already at the conclusion.

“Or someone deliberately deactivated the flow from the Vos energon fields and shut off the feed to the pumps. Without them, the macro-mechanisms starved. We were lucky to catch it before collapse really set in.”

“It wasn't a malfunction? Damage to the feed lines?”

“No. I checked them myself and we had an entire survey team out there yesterday tracking which lines we could use and which were damaged. No way did they just break on their own.”

Megatron forced his hands to open. His mind spiralled through monitor reports for traffic in the Vos area, although he knew for certain that there was only one relevant entry. With a growl, he triggered a communication channel and ordered Ravage to gather a squad. Then he hurled himself into tank mode and drove west in a roar of treads and fury.

 

* * *

**Silver Ridge Technological Foundation Reclamation Base**

**Remains of Vos**

**Cybertron**

 

The chief prospector was, at first, oblivious to Megatron's anger. He hurried to greet the cohort of soldiers bearing down on his platform with evident enthusiasm, smiling and rolling his shoulders. Perhaps he viewed the impending encounter as a welcome relief from the tedium of his work.

Any such thoughts were dispersed the instant Megatron transformed and seized him by the neck.

Ignoring the prospector's wings beating at his arm, he shook him hard. “What. Do. You. Think. You. Are. Doing?”

“What are you –”

Megatron shook him again. Behind him, his soldiers fanned out, weapons systems inactive but primed. “You interfered with the energon fields. _Before_ we were finished. We told you how long we needed. We gave you the _minimum_ time we required. And yet you _began to drain the energon fields before we were finished_.” He brought the prospector's optics level with his. “Explain. Now.”

“We completed our surveys! Head office ordered us to start immediately! They ordered us to –”

“And you did not think to _inform us of this_?”

“There was no time – we've been hired to extract as much energon as possible! The longer we leave it the more burns off in the fire – when they said immediately, they meant it! There wasn't time! Just look out there!”

Gesturing with his left wing and claw, the prospector flapped at the inferno raging beyond the platform's shields. “There are thousands of atroleders of high-grade going up in smoke every cycle longer we leave it!”

“That fuel belongs to the people we were try to provide proper shelter for!” Megatron bellowed into his face.

“That fuel belongs to the Kalis Trade Authority! They bought it before the Vosians decided to commit suicide by photon missile! That means they get to decide what to do with it and they want it transported to their reserve tanks. You have a problem with that, _sir_ , you take it up with them!”

Utterly disgusted, Megatron flung him away to land in a heap amid the half-circle of mechs who had gathered in response to the commotion and watched with their rotors spinning nervously. The prospector shrugged off their offers of help and turned a frightened, determined stare on Megatron, half-daring him to do more and risk a full-blown incident, with all the potential for military tribunals and disgrace that implied.

Megatron's mouth twisted. He spun to glare at the web of pipes and lines sunk into the fuel fields, stabbing down beneath the flames consuming the surface. “Oh, believe me, I will do better than that!”

 

 

* * *

**Command Platform**

**Refugee Camp**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _We fully sympathise with your position,”_ the shimmering figure of the Emirate said, _“and Nova Cronum is more than willing to donate resources to your efforts. But we do so from a position of luxury not shared by those states formerly dependent upon Vosian fuel. Kalis' actions were precipitous but they are understandable. It is unlikely the Council will censure them for what they have done. And it will almost certainly embolden other states to begin to claim fuel they believe they are owed. If Silver Ridge's work to extract energon from beneath the fires is successful, they will no shortage of employers.”_

Megatron hissed with frustration. “I am well aware of that. But thanks to them, we were not able to provide the refugees with the shelter they desperately require. I would like to remind the Council that air currents continue to spread contaminated matter over this area. Temporary shelters are not going to protect these people long-term and with the planned elevation incomplete, we  _ do not have enough room _ for everyone who needs it.”

Emirate Xaaron folded his arms and tapped his chin.  _ “I appreciate that, Commander. The full resources of the Defence Directorate are one thing but they cannot be expected to conjure fuel and shelter from thin air. Unfortunately, that is not an appreciation that all of my colleagues share. Certainly not within the individual governments. They see resources being mobilised and assume that those alone will be enough. Or don't care if they aren't.” _

“I see. So these people here are just to be left to their fate. Is that it?”

“ _Perhaps. The wonderful thing about the Council is that it allows such views to be balanced by those of us who do not concur. Please send me full records on the incident. It will be_ _helpful to our arguments_ _to have proof of the consequences that blindly seizing resources from the Vos/Tarn ruins will have. I wish I could promise you an immediate reversal in attitudes. More likely it will simply provoke some better behaviour in the future. Would it help you if the feed lines from Vos were reactivated and placed at your disposal again?”_

Grimacing, Megatron shook his head. “Uncertain. My engineers are still assessing the impact of the sudden stop. It is possible some of the control mechanisms have fused.”

“ _Meaning the underlying structure will be stuck as it is until the planetary repair systems have cycled through the damage. Unfortunate. I'm sure Deca Magnus will already have this covered but if you require any civilian expertise that you cannot otherwise obtain, please let me know. My contacts are at your disposal.”_

“Thank you Emirate.” He frowned, then straightened, “And thank you for your time.”

“ _Not at all, Field Commander.”_ The Emirate smiled. _“You were given an unenviable task. What you have achieved so far is highly commendable. I am certain your efforts will be remembered for a long time to come.”_ His smile faded. _“I would however suggest that you prepare for things to get worse before they get better. Iacon out.”_

The image died. Megatron rested his hands on the rim of the projector, resisting the urge to ball them into fists. It would not help. Not with this.  _I am certain your efforts will be remembered._ Perhaps they would. But what was the point if they had no effect? And what had caused the Emirate to sign off with such an ominous sentiment?

“Did you really expect anything helpful from a politician?” Ravage asked, responding as easily as he always did to thoughts Megatron had yet to voice. He was curled around himself, lying in the corner still enough that the casual observer might have assumed he was shut-down.

“The Council is _supposed_ to serve Cybertron's people.”

“They have no idea _how_ to serve. What experience of real life do they have? How many battles have their fought? How many times have they had to deal with people starving in the ruins of their homes?”

“The Emirate of Nova Cronum was a soldier. He left Tarn to join the Defence Directorate and served off-world. The Emirate of Protihex was on the front-lines during the Siege of Paradron. The Emirate of Iacon served too, even if it was as a medical officer. They're not all ignorant.”

Ravage's tail flicked dismissively. “Perhaps they're not. But they  _serve_ the ignorant. There's not one government out there that isn't riddled with Elite dross, overflowing with wealth and privilege and very much lacking in common sense. The Kalis Trade Authority is a pack of gabbling merchants and they practically run their city. The Tagen government flails about because no one in it has the respect of their own people. And those are the kinds of people who really control the Council. The Emirates are at most pleasing figureheads.” He stretched and rose on to his haunches. “You know that as well as I do. In other times it has been you who have called them fools. Why did you expect this time to be different?”

Megatron shuttered his optics, feeling a tremor of emotion run down his arms. He hissed again. “I hoped. I hoped it would be. That the suffering and destruction might have made them . . . might have forced them to change. The Council has the backing of the Prime, the Prime tried to stop it, I thought – I hoped – that might be enough.”

“You are a soldier,” Ravage told him after a moment, “You are forced every day to react to circumstance, to adapt and change so that you may do something greater. It makes you strong. They are removed. They can pick and chose what they react to and how they react to it. And they chose self-interest. Always. They know no other way.”

Releasing his hold on the projector, Megatron let his arms fall to his sides. He spoke to the far wall. “Sometimes your way of thinking disturbs me.”

Ravage laughed, soft and low. “Of course it does. If it did not, I would not be so useful to you.”

“Still. Some days even I think you're too cynical.”

“You have never disagreed with that attitude.”

“Hn.”

That hung between them for a little while, the unspoken accord. Megatron's gaze fell on the empty surface of the projector, his own hard expression reflected at him from the black glass.

“Enough wasting time.” Ravage slipped into step with him as he walked to the door. “Time to begin moving the refugees into the new buildings. We can't wait. Contact the chief medical officers. Their equipment should be in place by now. Get me lists of critical cases that will need to be moved first. After that, medical priority will decide the allotment of quarters. Instruct the engineers to begin setting up fuel distribution points in key structures.” Megatron bit off the words and stopped for a micro-cycle. Then quietly added, “And once that's done, we're going to start preparing for the worst.”


	8. In Memorial

**Refugee Camp**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

“Hm.”

Ratchet let that hang in the air for a couple of micro-cycles, examining his readouts with studied thoughtfulness. The trac fidgeted uncomfortably and looked up at him with the kind of worried expression that can only really be caused by a medical professional making a non-committal noise.

“You're gonna be fine,” he admitted after savouring the moment for just long enough that it was not actively cruel, “The abrasions on your wheels should close up in the next couple of days. Everything else has sealed over already.”

The trac's bristling antennae relaxed in relief and he tested his wheels a little to confirm the diagnosis. “Thanks!”

“Yeah, yeah, don't mention it or everyone will be expecting me to miraculously cure them.” Ratchet clambered awkwardly to his feet and ducked back a few steps. “Stay under cover and keep your wheels under you as much as possible. And go easy with the transformation for a bit – don't go changing shape just 'cos you want the latest racing results.”

The trac laughed cracklingly. “No fear. Never got to place that bet anyway.”

Ratchet left him to trundle a little deeper into a nest of protective sheeting and settle in between an off-line mech and a feebly twitching quad. He climbed out of the loosely constructed shelter and felt the usual pang of despair at seeing the camp in the daylight. Everything around him was grey. Not just the temporary structures or the artless, lopsided towers local satirists were already calling 'The Kalis Concession', though those were all uninspiringly drab and lacking even the most basic infra-red signposting to break up the monotony. The whole landscape was processor-meltingly dull. The fires on the horizon had dimmed to a distant simmer and in their place was dust. Lots and lots of dust, blowing in on the winds from the Iron Sea.

It turned the resolution of the world down a few notches and made the people as drab as their surroundings, to the point where Ratchet wanted to shout a lot and try to get everyone he could find over-energised just to shake some life back into the place.

If only it were that easy to shake life back into the people too.

“Bad news?” The reassuringly red shape of Lieutenant Commander Optrion appeared beside him, looking down in concern.

“Not this time,” Ratchet said darkly, shutting his diagnostic tools down with a firm snap, “But since every poor slagger out here's one radioactive particulate away from going straight back to 'barely functional', I'm not throwing a parade for it. You found any more room inside?”

Optrion glanced towards the tower he had just left. “Not any that would offer much protection from the weather.”

“Hn.”

“The engineers have started building some more permanent shelters at the western end though.”

“I know. They're still trying to get panels to bond to the ground. This rusted-over sink-hole doesn't like modern building materials, apparently. Meaning, it actively hates them.”

For a well-built warrior capable of stopping fights with a look, Option could look adorably crestfallen sometimes. Some perverse part of Ratchet's psyche found it quite cheering to see him metaphorically slump at the news. “Oh come on, don't be like that. What did I teach you about misfortune?”

“To let it make you bitter and miserable, then drink high-grade until you forget about it.”

“So I was trying to be a counter example. And it's not like you ever paid me much attention anyway.”

Optrion looked away.

Because of course memories of _that_ argument were the last thing he wanted to think about right now. Ratchet dug a foot into the rough ground and ploughed on before the big guy could start feeling ashamed. “Which is way down on the list of things making me bitter today. You get anywhere with those Tarnian slaggers you were going to try and talk down from – what was it? Tearing down one of the Vosian buildings or something?”

“I don't think they really knew what they wanted to do,” Optrion said with a shrug, “They were just angry about people being stuck outside. There was some talk about trying to empty out buildings some of the Vosians were using but I think they had managed to talk themselves out of that before I arrived. It's starting to sink in that everyone's in the same position.”

“About damn time.”

“They ended up proposing a sort of . . . not quite militia, more a kind of public watch to keep each other from doing something rash.”

“Or to keep the Vosians out of their territory.”

“Perhaps . . .”

Ratchet could see Optrion straining to believe that the more optimistic interpretation was the right one. And maybe he could see some truth to it too, even through the cynicism of a life spent at the edge of mortality. People adapted to the circumstances they found themselves in and past the savage patriotism and mutual hatred, the truth was that they were all stuck in a Pit of their own making. In such a situation, grudging cooperation was the only long-term survival strategy worth a damn.

Of course that overlooked the fact that most people were idiots.

“Come on.” He thumped Optrion in the side. “I've still got rounds to do and you haven't got anything better to do than keep me company.”

“Actually, I'm supposed to be checking in with the west-side patrols. There's some coordination issues with the Civic Guard officers assigned to that area.”

“That's not for another twenty cycles and I'm going west anyway. Through here, keep up.”

“How is it you always seem to know where everyone is supposed to be at any given time when you don't come to half our briefings and barely pay attention when you do?” Optrion wondered, ducking to follow Ratchet under a warped flyover.

“Who says I don't pay attention? Anyway, I need to know where all you blockheads are so I can anticipate the damage you'll do to yourselves. Which Guardsmech is it you're seeing?”

“Not sure. That's part of the problem, communication between us and them. Why do you ask?”

“Eh, there's one of 'em you should meet. You'd get along: you have the same attitude to life and limb.”

“You're always telling me I recklessly endanger myself and you want to introduce me to someone who'd encourage that behaviour?”

“Ah, shuddup.”

 

* * *

**Remains of the Caltok Exchange**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

 

Coming back had been pointless.

Navigating from the gutted remnants of the cargo interchange tower, he traced the streets he had once known only to find them so changed as to be unrecognisable. Precious few of the old landmarks remained even when the damage was factored out. The warehouses where he had worked were long gone, replaced with densely automated facilities whose inner workings now gaped at the sky from behind shattered walls. The paths he used to run daily twisted away from him on to new tracks, making unexpected turns around alien structures of undefined purpose. Even the descent shafts, plunging into the substrata, the nearest thing to true immovable objects in the city, had been modified to the point of being unrecognisable – tangled debris spoke of barriers and anti-grav matrices bolted across once-open levels, ancient elevators subsumed by the latest science.

Megatron peered into the depths and wondered if Viilon's inexorable technological improvements had eradicated the illegal gladiator pits or merely driven them further underground.

It was strange, realising how little he felt at the annihilation of the world of his past. He had lived and laboured in this place for mega-cycles. From the first time he had taken an alternate form until the Chromite War, Tarn had been home. He supposed that entitled it to some claim on his affection, yet looking around at what it was now reduced to, his only real emotion was lingering anger at having failed to prevent its destruction. He could detect no sensation of loss within himself, not even for the scores that would now go forever unsettled. The place, even the people he had known – they were irrelevant except that their loss harmed Cybertron. And in many cases, not even that.

So many of them were criminals. He had worked for them, shifting their wares, then fighting and killing for their greed or amusement until it bored him. They were small-minded, insignificant mechs, trapped in tiny cycles of profit and revenge. They meant little to him and mattered less. In offering himself up to the state as an athlete, he had escaped their existence for a larger world where their limitations became only more blatant. The anger, threats and even physical retribution that had come after him had been so easily dismissed.

He spun on his tracks and drove back towards the interchange. Two heavies, sent to drag him back in defeat. He remembered the sound of their armour buckling, the satisfying grinding _snap_ of their limbs ripping loose. His last kills for a while. The official bouts were staged things, run on the rules of entertainment, not survival. They required a different kind of viciousness: more directed, more controlled. Fighting for his city's pride in front of baying crowds had taught him restraint, of a kind. He had needed that.

When exactly had he first seen the bigger picture? Prejudice against Vos did not survive contact with their athletes. Good, honest thugs in the pay of mindless aristocrats, they were hard to hate. But actually understanding how small and narrow the life he had led was . . . that took time. He saw the mighty engines of Polyhex, the crystal gardens of Altihex and the golden walls of Iacon before his horizons expanded far enough for him to see Cybertron as it truly was.

How little he thought about that. A turning point in his life and yet merely a passing moment. It had been soon after the first time he had visited the Celestial Temple. The tower, the halls of heroes – they had impressed him more than he would ever admit. Their age, their defiance of time, the enormity of a city that could shield itself bodily from harm, all those things combined to leave him with a respect for the ancient Iaconians that he would never otherwise have allowed. But in truth, that had just been dazzle and spectacle. No. What had really changed him was going up to one of the sub-orbital complexes and looking down.

Cybertron had stretched out beneath him in a vast arc of cities and spans and chasms, all alive with motion and energy, all building and growing. Iacon was a hub, an axis for that movement, but it was just one among many and the scale of it all had left him speechless. All those lives, all those people, all that industry, coalescing into something greater, something that had lasted and would last far beyond any single state or government. A mechanism, orderly in the chaos of stars that surrounded it, spinning on from the beginning of time to the end.

It was not religion. Not the belief in some transcendent meaning in the world. But the belief in the world itself, in its right to exist and to become better and mightier the longer it continued.

Then the war had come, another empire trying to steal the place Cybertron's children had made for themselves in the cosmos. Unacceptable. Unforgivable. Megatron had gone to war and had stayed at war ever since.

He transformed before the interchange tower and stared up at its broken form, hung with train tracks torn loose by the detonations, cursing again the fools responsible. The magnificent whole he had glimpsed all those stellar-cycles ago was wounded now, vital components damaged perhaps beyond repair. At least he was not alone in his horror. The Prime saw it, clearly. The Magnus too, and even some of the Council. They shared the anger, the fury and shame of onlookers faced with the consequences of standing by and being able to do nothing. If they did right by it, if they took strength from it, they would stand against the fools who remained among them, the parasites who would pick over the corpses and learn nothing.

Ravage doubted they would show that strength. Ravage doubted everyone and saw only the worst in others. Megatron had never asked why. But he hoped that this time, the cynic was wrong. More than hoped. He _needed_ him to be wrong.

If all the people he had known from his life in Tarn were reduced to slag and vapour, it meant nothing. What little they ever added to Cybertron was far outweighed by what they had taken. They did not matter. Their deaths did not matter. The rest though . . . Tarn and Vos in their entirety, two whole cities' worth of useful and productive citizens, the strong and the clever alike . . . the only way that cost could be justified was with change for the better.

He did not think himself prepared to live in the world where that did not happen.

 

* * *

**Verous Arena**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

Blades spinning in time to the frantically whirring tracks of the tanks below, a cloud of heli-forms rose through the amphitheatre and swept low over the crowd, counterpointing their motion-distorted sound with strobing light. The mourning chant deepened in pitch, the tanks whirling slower, the singers reforming so their words reverberated over and over. A lone avir soared skywards then plunged to the ground in a spiral of complex databursts, the faces of the dead superposed with the flames of war. It was a spark-rending theme within a composition that combined the best parts of Tarnian and Vosian musical artistry in a fitting and affecting tribute to those who had been lost. One would have expected nothing less of the Lor-Galun Choir.

Xaaron was fairly certain he could count the number of actual Vosians and Tarnians in the arena on the fingers of one hand and all of them were in the choir itself. The audience was Iaconian, Praxian, Cronium, Paxian – all those who looked in on the crisis and grieved by proxy. The show was for them: a nice, clean expression of shared distaste for what had happened. One that, ultimately, achieved nothing but a few eased consciences.

If, indeed, there were consciences that needed easing.

“ _You need to stop this proposal.”_

Tomaandi ignored him at first, schooling his face to look suitably downcast as the choir moved into a second act and set about conjuring up images of long-dead glories. Xaaron persisted. _“Your government must know that in the long run this will be as self-destructive as allowing Vos to dictate your energy policies in the first place.”_

The crimson mech shifted irritably in his seat and glared sideways at his neighbour. _“This is hardly the time!”_

“ _I think it's exactly the time. Or are you not paying attention to the scale of what is being commemorated here?”_

“ _'Commemorated'? You make it sound as if we are celebrating!”_

“ _Not at all. Although some might question the motive behind commissioning a memorial to those who have died and not inviting the survivors to the performance. But that is not the point. The proposal from Praxus, Kalis and Prodium. You have to stop it.”_

“ _I personally? Don't be ridiculous.”_

“ _You as a representative of your people! Tomaandi, you cannot seriously expect me to believe that this sits well with you? What is being suggested . . .”_

“ _Is necessary.”_ He flicked another scowl at Xaaron. _“We have to secure our people's future.”_

“ _It is_ wrong _.”_ It was hard to keep from actually vocalising the word. He wanted to get up and shake Tomaandi until he got some sense from the mech.

“ _No,”_ the other Emirate corrected coolly, “ _It is distasteful. There is a difference.”_

“ _You talk about destroying hundreds of lives and you call it 'distasteful'. Your powers of understatement amaze me.”_

“ _Whereas your sarcasm merely irritates me.”_

Tomaandi actually turned his head to look at Xaaron, optics narrowed accusingly. _“Whatever the cost of this decision – and in spite of what you think, it was not taken lightly – this needs to be done. Someone needs to take over where Vos and Tarn left off. And – fortunately or otherwise – it makes sense for the fuel concerns to be divided between those of us who are not already overburdened with existing mining projects.”_

“ _By which you of course mean Praxus?”_ Xaaron asked, with as much sarcasm as he could convey.

“ _And why not?”_ Tomaandi rejoined angrily, _“Nova Cronum has more than its fair share of mining colonies. Time I think for the rest of us to get a chance.”_

“ _Will you listen to me? I – we – don't care if you have more mines to you name! By all means, take over managing those colonies. But for Primus sake, work_ with _the miners already there! They have the expertise, the experience – they_ know _their planets. Use that! Don't cast them aside just because of who put them out there!”_

“ _We couldn't possibly trust them. Besides. They would hardly want to work for us, would they? It was their own deranged patriotism that led to this situation.”_

Regaining some composure, Tomaandi returned his attention to the choir. The heli-forms were forming shapes in the air now, patterns that intersected with the hypothetical extensions of those being created by the tanks and a set of racers who zipped between their slower brethren like lighting between clouds. There motion spoke of the conflict between the lost cities, etching it as some tragic historical imperative that could have ended no other way.

“ _I respect your position, Xaaron. Really, I do. The problem is, I do not live in a city that has the luxury of placing higher morals above practical realities. This needs to happen. And we have the support. Not just Kalis and Prodium. Altihex, Tyger Pax, Tagen – they'll all be behind us on this.”_

“ _Tagen would support anyone who gave them a lifeline out of the social implosion they're heading for!”_ Xaaron struck his fists on his knees, going for one last, hopeless appeal. _“It was ignoring 'higher morality' that got us into this mess! Can you really not see that this will end with exactly the same mistakes being made, not to mention life being made intolerable for –”_

“ _Xaaron. Shut up and watch the show.”_

And of course there was nothing else he could do except exactly that.

 

* * *

**Triumvirate Chamber**

**Planetary Defence Directorate Command**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

They had removed the restraint claw, which was somehow far less reassuring than he expected. He stood pinned in a beam of light at the centre of the darkened chamber, quite unable to find any comfort in being freed. Given where he was, 'freed' was an extremely relative term.

“Field Commander Vieux Mech Uun Novus Hexus.” Supreme Commander Grandus' voice boomed from wall to wall. “You stand before us charged with the unlawful destruction of a fellow solider, the reckless endangerment of civilian lives and extreme dereliction of your duty as a member of the Defence Directorate. What say you in your defence?”

Vieuxuun focused through the glare and the darkness, discerning the shape of his accusers. The Supreme Commanders, all three of them standing in judgement above him. A crowd of onlookers fanned out around them, soldiers every one. All condemning him for following his orders.

“I have nothing to say,” he answered bitterly, “except that I was carrying out my assignment within the parameters set by my superiors. We were ordered to observe and contain, not to intervene. _Megatron_ disobeyed those orders and incited others to disobey them. _I_ acted to prevent open mutiny.”

“It is a primary requirement of all Defence Directorate officers that they be adaptable to circumstances beyond their mission parameters,” Viktoleo stated blandly, “Megatron's actions were in fulfilment of that requirement and undertaken in defence of the people of Cyberton.”

Deftwing made a disgusted noise. “His 'mutiny' might well have saved more lives if you hadn't taken it upon yourself to act as a one-mech court-martial.”

Vieuxuun folded his hands behind his back and drew himself up. If he was to be humiliated, he refused to let it been drawn out into a farce. “It sounds as if you have already reached a decision, sirs. I would appreciate it if you would deliver your verdict now.”

He saw Grandus shift his massive bulk. “Very well. Vieuxuun: in light of the severity of the charges and your refusal to accept responsibility for your actions, we have no choice but to find you guilty on all counts. With immediate effect, you are stripped of all rank and fuel privileges. Henceforth, you are forbidden from military service. You will be forcibly reformatted into a non-combat form and will be relegated to labour grade operations on the outer planet stations for the next ten thousand stellar cycles. You will never again be permitted to advance yourself or to hold sway over your brothers. May this punishment bring justice for those who can no longer seek it for themselves.”

Vieuxuun felt nothing at the judgement. Nothing at all as he was led away to where his form would be torn from him.

They had chosen an ill-disciplined thug over a model soldier who obeyed his function without complaint or contradiction. He just prayed he lived long enough to see them suffer the inevitable disaster that would bring upon them.

 

* * *

**Refugee Camp**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

Ravage listened and heard all.

Even though the radioactive sleet, he could tap into the feeds showing the stirring eulogy being performed in Iacon and marvel at the crassness of the spectacle. They postured and made a show of grieving for the people they could have saved, the destruction they could have prevented and paraded it before the world as something to take pride in. Look at us, they screamed with their chants and dances, we are the pinnacle of civilisation, the elite of Cybertron, and we persist. Never mind all those poor workers and soldiers boiled to vapour: after this, we can forget and go back to our comfortable lives at the top of the heap.

Below Ravage's perch on the command platform antenna, medics toiled to maintain the broken, engineers struggled to provide shelter for the homeless, and soldiers and Guardsmechs fought to keep the peace between the desperate. A futile exercise in trying to salvage the wreckage, ordered by the same people who were stealing the resources necessary for it to succeed. Did they appreciate the irony of their hypocrisy? Would they even notice the deepening flaws in the Cybertron they were creating, the fractures and contradictions and _weaknesses_ formed by their every inane decision?

Ravage doubted it. They – all those parasites and fools – they would never see beyond their own petty ambitions, never dream of a whole greater than themselves.

So be it. In time, the future would belong those who did see and could dream, who looked at Cybertron and saw what it could become.

And as he arched his back and flicked his tail, Ravage looked past the mismatched 'Concession', past the walls of the camp, past the ugly platforms creeping in to drain Tarn dry, and focused instead on the silver dot driving back from the jagged horizon.

Oh yes. That future would come and he would stand proudly at his commander's side when it did.


	9. Crisis of Faith

“ **The Kalis Concession** **”**

**Refugee Camp**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

“And the Vosians agree that the peace must be kept?” Megatron did not turn or slow down, simply forged ahead and expected his companions to keep up.

“Of course we do,” the battered workmaster huffed, “We . . . we just want to get through this.”

“We all want that,” Captain Cerrebos murmured from the other side of Megatron. Powerful as he was, he provided a disconcerting counterpart to the scrawny flyer. If he had seemed less broken inside, he might even have been threatening.

“Good.” Megatron glanced once over each shoulder, once at each of them. “The two of you have accepted responsibility for your people's conduct. We can impose order from above but you can actually enforce it on the ground. You understand?”

Cerrebos studied the street they were walking through, the warped, overflowing towers and the people huddling in doorways. “You want us to stop the fights before they begin. Because we understand our people.”

“You think they'll listen to us,” the Vosian simplified, rubbing at the fin on his forearm, “So we can do your job for you.”

“I hope so. That will mean I can stop posting soldiers on ever street corner.”

Breaking off, Megatron stared at a medic attending a nearby group of labour-grade mechs. Obviously exhausted by the day's efforts, the soldier was still working to stop a fuel-leak in one of the bigger cyols. He fumbled his way through the patch-up process then stopped, hand in his storage module. There was panic on his face.

“What's wrong?”

The medic started at Megatron's question, optics darting up. “Oh, sir! Um – no spare fuel, sir.”

“Can any of you spare any?” Megatron demanded of the cyol's comrades. They all looked at him with dull, drained expressions. Clearly not.

“Let me.” The workmaster stepped forward, opening his chest plates. But before he could disengage a fuel line, Cerrebos' hand stopped him.

“No. You can't spare the fuel either. Let me.”

The workmaster jerked away. “These are _Vosians_.”

“I know,” the big Tarnian said simply.

No one said anything more as the medic connected up the lines and siphoned enough energon to stabilise the cyol. Cerrebos staggered a little when the process was finished and Megatron reached out to steady him. The workmaster got there first. He helped the fortress regain his balanced then quickly stepped away, not meeting his eye.

“Thank you,” Cerrebos acknowledged, without a hint of irony.

The Vosian just nodded.

Megatron folded his arms, waiting to make sure the medic had finished his work. The short mech sealed off the cyol's access ports and nodded. “All done.” Getting up, he tapped the back of his neck. “On to the next,” he said resignedly.

“No, get back for refuelling,” Megatron ordered, “You're no good to anyone on an empty tank yourself.”

“I – ah.” Whatever protests he had been going to make faded at his commander's expression. “Yes sir.” Saluting once, he transformed and drove away.

“Your troops are dedicated,” the workmaster observed.

“Of course.” He was about to return to the matter at hand when a communication from one of Optrion's soldiers snagged his attention. “Go ahead,” he ordered.

“ _Uh, sorry ta break in, Commander. We gotta situation out at the east perimeter.”_

Megatron frowned at the unusual lack of specifics. “What kind of situation, Ironhide?”

“ _Sorry sir. Ah'm just not quite sure myself. There's a couple a' Circuit-Masters and some Dai warriors shown up with a whole bunch a' protoforms in tow.”_

“What?!”

“ _They, uh, say they need ta speak ta yah – ah mean, they want ta speak ta whoever's in charge.”_

“And they won't tell you what they want?”

“ _No sir. An' ah haveta say, some a' these protoforms ain't looking so good.”_

Given the environment around the camp, Megatron did not doubt it. “Understood. I'm on my way.” He dropped into tank mode and gunned his engines, sparing only a glance for the two mechs beside him. “We will have to continue this later. I will expect your ideas on how to promote greater cooperation.”

Their expressions mingled horror and determination until he turned out of sight.

 

* * *

The protoforms were not totally without protection from their surroundings. Each had been swaddled in the kind of covering religious mechs sometimes wore, and two of the Dai warriors were protecting a low-yield force field around them to deflect the worst of the airborne hazards. But regardless of that, they were a sorry looking lot. Megatron thought back to his earliest moments, when frailty and confusion had held sway. He doubted they had any idea what was going on or why they were there.

To be fair, they were not the only ones.

“You are responsible for this?”

The Circuit-Master turned at his question, white optics flickering briefly. It looked up at him with a hint of irritation somewhere in the blank curve of its face. No doubt it was used to a more respectful tone of address. “You are in authority here?” It spoke slowly, using an awkward, ritual language full of complex meaning.

“Yes,” Megatron snapped back, sticking to the standard military linguistics. He did not have time to play games.

“I am Tonshu, Circuit-Master of Lyivas Keldon. I am, as you say, responsible for these protofoms.”

“Then would you kindly tell me why you have brought them here?” He flung his arm out. “I'm sure you've noticed that we are not exactly fit to receive _guests_.”

The Circuit-Master tightened its grip on its staff. “They require your help,” it explained stridently, “They would have been allotted to Vos and to Tarn but that is, Primus preserve us all, no longer possible. Since the other cities refuse to accept more than their quota of protoforms, and in the absence of any other authority, responsibility for their formatting and fuelling falls to you. In the name of the Allspark, we deliver them into your care.” It slammed its staff against the ground, punctuating its words with a resounding thump.

Megatron stared at it, utterly speechless, almost too astonished to be angry.

“You . . . are . . . serious?” When he spoke, it was slowly, not trusting his own voice to hold steady. “This is . . . this is not a joke?”

“A joke?” The Circuit-Master sounded scandalised. “Most certainly not!”

“You are _seriously_ suggesting that we attempt to care for these newborns in the midst of trying to handle the biggest crisis in this _hemisphere's history_? Are. You. Insane?”

“How dare you –”

“WHY ARE YOU STILL CREATING MORE PEOPLE WHEN WE CANNOT SUPPORT THE ALREADY LIVING?!” Every one of the protoforms flinched at the shout and the Dai warriors raised their swords fractionally but Megatron was far beyond caring. “I have had to deploy soldiers to stop civilians tearing each other apart! I have forced people into the same rooms as those they blame for the death of everything they have known because we do not have the space to protect everyone from the fallout! We can barely fuel the survivors because THE COUNCIL ITSELF IS PERMITTING THE THEFT OF ENERGON THAT RIGHTFULLY BELONGS TO THEM! And into. All. This. You would bring the _newly formed_?! HOW DARE _YOU_?!”

Tonshu quailed before the sheer volume of his words. It struggled to maintain its poise, pulling its skeletal limbs around itself. “There is no other option! The other cities – they do not have the room – these protoforms –”

“THEN STOP MAKING THEM! If this region is so overcrowded – if no one can support them – stop. Creating. Them. Still the Wells! Wait until Cybertron can cope with more children!”

“St-still the Wells? Y-you court blasphemy! The First Cov –”

“TO THE PIT WITH BLASPHEMY!” It was all Megatron could do to keep from tearing the staff from its grasp and beating it around the head. “This is simple resource management! Can you not grasp that? DID THAT ELECTRUM FUSE YOUR PROCESSORS –”

“Commander! Commander Megatron!”

Brakes screeching, Optrion veered out into the open and sped towards them, transforming at the last moment to offer a deep bow and salute to the Circuit-Master. “My sincerest apologies for this unforgivably rude interruption – but Commander Megatron's presence is required at once in the camp proper. I would not have been so abrupt except that it may well be a matter of life or death. Sir?”

He looked so earnest and full of desperate urgency that Megatron knew at once that it was a ploy. And that should have been as infuriating as the Tonshu's blunt stupidity, expect the very fact that his subordinate was resorting to such a transparent tactic made him realise just how close he had come to doing something phenomenally regrettable.

So while the Circuit-Master of Lyivas Keldon stuttered that of course, if it was so urgent a matter, then they would have to continue their . . . discourse later, Megatron clamped his mouth shut and allowed Optrion to lead him away.

 

* * *

“I wish to formally report myself for lying to a superior officer,” Optrion announced as soon as they were safely out of sensor range, “I will of course accept any punishment you deem appropriate, sir.”

Megatron grunted. “My anger is damped by the fact you just stopped me from killing my career. Ironhide summoned you, I suppose?”

“I'm not sure he used the correct signal code for 'Field Commander about to martyr an honoured guest' but I got the message.”

“Hm. I'm . . . grateful you did.” He twitched his main turret in irritation. “I . . . lost my temper.”

Optrion did not disagree. “I think anyone in your position would have done, sir,” he said instead.

“Hah! Not you. You’re too pious.” Megatron wrestled with his rage, forcing it beneath rational considerations. “Look – you're more familiar with these . . . _religious_ types than I am. Explain to me what it is that leads them to birth people who have no hope of being properly supported.”

“Well . . . there are a number of interpretations of the First Covenant.” Optrion hesitated, perhaps wondering how deeply into the subject Megatron expected him to go. “The orthodoxy the Circuit-Masters hold to is that the creation of life is a sacred duty, as inviolate as life that already exists. Because we all live in the shadow – it's generally phrased in terms of the Great Devourer, but it mostly just means death – because of that, the Wells can never be stilled or allowed to stop producing sentient protoforms. Life must persist. No matter the cost.”

“But Cybertron's resources are finite! That would lead to extinction, not persistence!”

“Well . . . yes. I can't disagree with that, sir. The interpretation dates from the era of the First Prime, when Cybertron was overflowing with fuel and raw materials. Back then, I think they believed the planet would provide for everyone. Primus would provide for all of us forever.”

Megatron surged forwards, pouring his anger into acceleration. “And they _still_ believe that?”

“A lot of the Circuit-Masters are ancient,” Optrion reminded him, speeding to catch up, “They see the world a particular way and it might be hard for them to accept that it has changed. The younger ones . . . it's hard to overstate how much obedience to the Covenants is drilled into them sir. It makes a kind of sense. They do care for the very young and the base stuff we're made from. You'd always want them to respect the sanctity of that. They have to be trusted with it.”

“But not trusted to do what is right for the real Cybertron instead of the one they imagine!”

They sped past the command platform and on through the rows of equipment bays. Megatron fumed silently down the length of one section, then growled, “I will have to speak to the Magnus. Unless you have some brilliant insight into how we resolve this?”

“Sorry, sir. I know enough theology to be dangerous, not to get Primus' personal comm frequency.”

“Hmh.” Braking hard, Megatron jumped to his feet. “Heh. No, I suppose not. Fine. I'll handle the calls. You – well, you wanted to be punished, yes?”

Optrion transformed and nodded warily. “Yes, commander?”

“Good. You can go and calm Circuit-Master Tonshu down for me.” He grimaced. “Tell him . . . tell him I apologise for my inappropriate outburst. And that I am going to set this right.”

 

* * *

Gold and vermilion, shining bright against the grey dirt, the many-wheeled vehicle rumbled towards the camp, flanked by the rolling forms of equally polished guards. A blue and red jet glided above, keeping a respectful distance behind the convoy, and behind that followed another aircraft, one that seemed as much tank as jet. Tracks and drills were crammed together along its body with wings and blades, the whole not as ungainly as such a combination should have been.

Megatron watched the procession approach and wondered how different things would have been if it had come a few quartex earlier. The Prime, the Magnus and the Dai – the Life-giver, the Law-keeper and the Battle-master: the three icons of Cybertron, united by the plight of the new-born. The very plight that their unity could have prevented if it had been deployed sooner.

The officers lined up to receive them came to attention, military and Civic Guard alike. The Circuit-Masters genuflected and beamed songs of welcome into the local ether. Sentinel Prime braked and transformed, rising to his full height and hefting his spear. Deca Magnus and the Dai landed on either side of him, mismatched in design but sharing the same solemnity. The protoforms looked at them in awe.

Sentinel stepped closer. “Megatron,” he greeted without warmth, “Cybertron salutes you for your efforts. But it grieves me to learn that you have refused aid to these most helpless of brothers.”

“Not out of choice.” A few words in and already Megatron was irritated by the ritual of the exchange, the posturing for the historical record. Drawing a matter of logistics out into a full ceremony when it could have been solved in a couple of cycles over a secure channel. Pointless. But if this was what it took to do the right thing, then it had to be done. “I would never refuse aid to my brothers if it was in my power to give it. But here and now, it is not.”

“As I have been reporting to you, my Prime,” the Magnus cut in, “the people here struggle to make do with what little they have retained. The added strain of more tanks to fill would be catastrophic.”

The Prime looked over at the camp and past it to the Concession, expression immobile. Megatron was trying to decide if that was the result of hiding guilt or due to true indifference when he became distracted by the way the Dai was studying him. Mostly black and blue, the warrior was covered in golden ornamentation that included an over-sized fin on his helm, clearly designed to draw the eye away from his face. Looking past that, though, revealed optics full of keen intelligence. They reminded Megatron a little of Ravage's, the same analytical light that meant the owner was considering all the ways in which you could be destroyed.

Which was surely only fitting for the head of an order that placed the protection of the Wells above even the Circuit-Masters' hallowed First Covenant.

“I am appalled by what has become of the people here,” Sentinel was saying, “and I mourn all they have lost. I would not consent to their suffering being prolonged. It is to be hoped that this is only a temporary ill and that they may one day reclaim their potential and rejoin us in the light of the unified Cybertron. Here and now, as you so rightly say, Commander Megatron, there is nowhere for those newly risen from the Allspark. For their sake, as much as for the lost and the broken, I forbid any protoforms being allotted to this place.” He lifted his spear. “Until such time as new cities rise here, it is my will, in the name of Primus and the Matrix, that the protoforms from all Wells in this region be split between those states that remain functional. Circuit-Masters, do you consent to this?”

The feeble golden figures nodded and swayed their agreement, murmuring incantations and prayers.

“Dai Altus, will you commit your Order to ensuring this comes to pass?”

The Dai signalled his assent with the barest of nods.

“Then let it be done.” Sentinel extended a hand to the still-gaping protoforms. “My brothers, worry not. You shall find your homes this day in Tagen and in Kalis, in Prodium and Dramor. But look around and remember this desolation. Understand that this is the consequence of breaking the Covenants and placing selfish gain over the welfare of all. Let what you see here guide you into a better future.”

With that pronouncement, the ceremony appeared to be over. The Circuit-Masters gathered their charges and guided them to the transports waiting to convey them to their new homes. The Dai spoke briefly and deferentially to the Prime then transformed and took up the position of escort, presumably to guard the protoforms from any resistance to the news that the other Qosho cities would have more than the expected number of new citizens.

An admirably direct approach, Megatron thought.

Sentinel turned to him. “I would walk among the survivors,” he said quietly, suddenly more tired than regal, “Expulsion from the Council should not – does not – mean they are beyond the light of the Allspark. I want them to know that. I want them to know that I am not blind to their suffering.”

Behind him, Deca Magnus briefly wore a look of pure horror at the idea of the Prime walking, unannounced, among the refugees. Judging by the slight shift in his optic colour and the twitch of his aerials, he went straight from that to communicating frantically with his Guardsmechs.

Megatron squared his shoulders. “As you wish, sir. If you'll follow me?”

* * *

“Well that was suitably traumatising,” the Magnus muttered, accepting the energon cube Megatron handed him.

They were standing on the command platform observation deck, watching the last of the Prime's entourage lift off and angle towards distant Iacon. Megatron took a cube of his own from the ration stack. “No one actually attacked him. So we have that.”

Deca drank slowly. “I saw more than a few who looked like they wanted to. Although balanced by those adoring him for sorting the latest mess out.”

“Thank you for arranging that.”

He shifted and tilted his head dismissively. “Hardly my doing. The moment Sentinel heard, he was determined to come straight down here and do something about it. He would have driven here on his own if he had to.”

“Hn.”

Rolling his enormous shoulders, the Magnus drained the cube and carefully set the empty container down. “The one thing I have learnt about the religious class in my stellar-cycles of service,” he told Megatron, “is that from the Prime down to the lowliest initiate, they all view their duties as the most important thing in the universe. Whether you believe or not, do not underestimate what that drive can achieve – and do not make them your enemies.”

Accepting the admonishment, Megatron downed his energon and crushed his cube to powder. “I regret my outburst. Not my anger.”

“Fair.” Deca opened and closed his wings. “For what it is worth, I would not have reprimanded any of my officers for experiencing that anger.”

“You would have reprimanded them for acting on it.”

“True. Fortunately, I am not your superior so that responsibility falls to someone else. Besides.” He half-smiled. “You channelled it in the right direction. Made a fuss, shouted at the right people, did not just accept what you had been presented with.”

“Channelled anger is useful to a soldier,” Megatron said, considering, “Next time I'll try and remember that before I start shouting.”

“Good.” Smile vanishing, the Magnus turned to a display console and brought up a cluster of resource deployment charts. “Since I do not have to leave until the morning, perhaps we should resume our long-term planning?”

“Agreed. I'll summon Jaantanon.”

* * *

Ravage was waiting for him when he returned to the operations chamber, poised overlooking the main map. The light from it vanished into his armour, drained away into the blackness. Only his optics reflected the patterns of the camp.

“I think this is the longest you have avoided me since you were first assigned to my command,” Megatron said, amused by the idea, “Did my arguing with a Circuit-Master _offend_ you?”

“It wasn't you I was avoiding,” his lieutenant replied, not looking up.

With a bat of his claws, Ravage triggered a newsfeed window. “And I thought you might be interested in the result of the Prime's latest decree.” He stepped aside.

 _Tri-State Proposal Passes With Slim Majority!_ the feed screamed, _All Remaining Vos/Tarn Resources To Be Siezed Immediately! Off-World Interests To Be Reassigned! New Protoform Requirements Cited As Reason For Dramor Reversal! Vos/Tarn Personnel To Be Decommissioned And Returned to Cybertron! No Word Yet On Where They Will Be Housed!_

_More On This Story As It Develops!_

 


	10. The Simfur Revolt

**Tidora, Lakatera and Qosho Regions**

**Cybertron**

 

It took nearly three days for the consequences of the Council's ruling to come to a head.

Defence Directorate spacecraft lifted off within hecta-cycles of the announcement, escorting the miners and security detachments who would be taking over the colonies. The speed with which they were deployed led many pundits to make snide remarks about collusion and foregone conclusions. They were not privy to the mad scramble among the quartermasters and pilots to prep enough cruisers and equipment to meet the demand, nor to the heated arguments between the Supreme Commanders and city governments who simply expected full military support at a moment's notice.

Neither were the protesters who gathered outside the Celestial Temple and the Praxian parliament, running their voicoders hot in anger at institutional greed and the mistreatment of their brother mechs. The residual Vos/Tarn merchant population in Kalis and Tagen were just as loud, and within a day and a half, the local police were contending with more than just raised voices. Soon the crowds had turned violent and, with worrying frequency, into weapons.

Clamp-downs followed in short order, becoming increasingly severe as word came back from the nearest space colonies that Vosian miners were actively resisting being expelled from their homes. 'Active resistance' in this instance being a euphemism for barricading themselves in the mines and sending driller drones out to put holes in anyone trying to reach to them. More and more arrests were made. Two days after making their decision, the High Council reconvened in an emergency session, spurred equally by second thoughts, original objections and demands for a harder stance. The newsfeeds buzzed with opposing opinions from everyone involved and quite a large number of people who were not.

Kalis reiterated that its intention to provide for its citizens depended on the continued viability of the colonies. Tyger Pax returned a cautious judgement that it was unlikely the existing miners could be convinced to keep supplying fuel to Cybertron. Dramor condemned the violence at all levels and offered token conciliation to the aggrieved parties.

On the evening of the third day, the Tarnian military detachment who had been posted to Simfur in support of the revolutionary government – subsequently left as the only remaining functional and armed part of Tarn's mighty army – marched on mass into the Simfur governmental complex and declared that they were seizing the state as a new home land for their people.

History would later record this as a very bad thing.

 

 

* * *

**Central District**

**Simfur**

**Cybertron**

 

“Keep your slagging head down!” Clearsight shoved his companion back behind the parapet, hiding him from the troopers rolling up the street below. “You want to get it shot off?”

The young anti-aircraft gun wriggled furiously out of the grip. “Ger'off. I know what I'm doing!”

“Like slag you do,” the sniper said philosophically, uncovering optic strips on his finger tips and poking them over their cover. “Keep down until I tell you, got it?”

“All right, all right, got it.” The gun shuffled about, trying to get comfortable. His tracks kept snagging on the ridiculous frilled bits the Simfurians had for some reason packed on to their roof-tops. “How many are there down there then?”

“Too many,” Clearsight hissed, “The captain's mad if he thinks we can hold out against the entire Defence Directorate.”

“We're dug in deep,” the gun reminded him, “And we got hostages. They wouldn't dare attack straight out.”

“Wouldn't they? How much attention you been paying, cog? That's the Hero of Kolidahl out there, leading the charge. Greatest soldier Tarn ever produced, some say.”

“He's a traitor! Siding with them over us!”

Clearsight shrugged. “That's his duty. Can't blame a solider for doing his duty.” He shifted his fingers, sweeping his gaze up from the ground forces to the flock of Air Guardians circling the rim of the district. They were unnerving him, keeping back like that but not actually landing. You did not keep air troops hovering unless you intended them to move in . . .

“Hey, what was that?” The gun jostled him suddenly, throwing off his line of sight.

“What was what?” He looked where the trooper was pointing, along the run of the roof and back towards what was, for the moment, central command. As far as he could tell, there was nothing there that was no supposed to be.

“Uh . . . it's gone.” Sounding confused, the gun shook his head and frowned. “Sorry.”

“Defrag your optics and get your processors in the game, cog.” Clearsight resumed scanning the Defence Directorate forces, adjusting for the increasing darkness. “We got one Pit-damned job to do, might as well do it right. Even if it is crazy.”

“You shouldn't say that! So it's your precious Hero's job to stop us? It's our duty to do what's right for our people!”

“And you reckon that's taking over an entire city? You're as mad as the Captain.”

“The Captain's not mad! Slag it, why do you keep saying that?”

“Because you can't take a whole city with a dozen squads. Just can't. We were barely holding this place with the Simfurians fighting us every step of the way. You reckon it'll be easier facing down all that out there? The Overseer would never have allowed this to happen.”

The gun snarled and transformed, spinning his turrets angrily. “The Overseer ran off to Iacon the first chance she got! Didn't want to be stuck in the slag with the rest of us!”

“The Council called her to account for the entire army's actions, numb-nodes! She didn't have a choice.”

“She could have told them to go scrap themselves! They're the ones who allowed the slagging Vosians to slag our home!”

“Get your sensors out of your exhaust, you dumb lock-form! This is all a lot more complicated than that. Isn't a chance the Council'd allow Vos to slag us any more than they'd let us slag Vos. This is all outside they're control. And we're not making anyone's lives easier by trying to steal someone else's home for ourselves.”

“Our people are rusting in a slagging prison camp! They _need_ us to do this! Slag you if you can't see that.”

“Will you shut up about things you know nothing about and let me concentrate? Those jets are forming up and the ground troops –”

“Shhhhiieiieeeearrrrgh –!”

Clearsight whirled, rifle snapping into place. The gun was convulsing, plates twisting and arcing. His scream cut off almost immediately, his barrels flinching once then drooping, lifeless. A shape, black as starless space, hunched atop him, claws sunk deep into his armour. Clearsight fired, but in the nano-cycle it took for his weapon to react, something whipped through the air and sliced his arm clean off at the elbow.

He collapsed backwards. A tail. The thing murdering the poor dumb cog was a quad and its tail was covered in atom-edged blades. He saw its optics now, bright gold in the empty void of its head, its mouth gaping and full of dagger-teeth. He triggered his comm. All the channels were swamped with interference, vicious in its intensity. The quad pulled its claws free of the gun.

It sprang for him and Clearsight would have screamed, but he was far too slow.

 

* * *

**Hall of Governance**

**Central District**

**Simfur**

**Cybertron**

 

“You were sent here to helpus!” Representative Correear thrashed against the cables holding him in place, unable to pull the barbed tips free of his armour. “Not to become another set of oppressors!”

“Save your fuel,” barked the trac tied down next to him, “This is _exactly_ what they came here to do. Or did you miss the armed patrols keeping our people trapped in their homes?”

“That does not make it right, Taliwaen! Captain, whatever your grievance with the Council, we have done you no harm! Stop now before this goes too far!”

“It already has!” Taliwaen dragged himself as far as he was able, rising up on his wheels. “Whatever sympathy you people might have got, you've just thrown away! No one will seriously believe you're victims after this. Not that I ever thought you could be anything of the kind . . . blindly following that one-eyed tyrant, trying to make the whole world march in step. We were going to be free, you Pit-fragged drones! You think you can just walk in and take our city? We've fought you every turn of the wheel! And now the rest of the world's going to do the same! I hope the Defence Directorate melts you into the ground and every one of those damn colonies with your!”

“QUIET!” Taliwaen's rant dissolved into a sharp cry of pain. The trooper who had jabbed him turned to the towering figure at the centre of the room, pike-staff raised eagerly for a second strike. “Want me to shut this one up for good, captain, sir?”

“Killing us won't help your cause,” Correear muttered, drawing his arms tight around himself, “None of this will help you.”

The Tarnian captain raised his hand. “If they speak again, shock them into stasis.” He waited to watch the representatives sink back into obedient stillness, then turned back to his communications officer. “Straight answer: can we hold this perimeter?”

“Not for long,” she replied, adjusting her projections, “Consolidating our forces is not going to buy us as much time as we hoped. They've sent nearly a whole battalion in. Must have pulled hundreds of mechs off duty at the camp – and there are more inbound from the Laketera bases.” Her optics flicked away. “Sir . . . what's the plan here? We've got this place locked down, most of the Simfur insurgents were already in custody, but . . . there's no one out there who can reinforce us.”

“Wrong.” The captain put his fists on his hips. A fortress, built for ranged bombardment, his hands were bigger than the communicator's torso. The cannons on his arms and legs stood out stark red against his grey plating. “If we can just get a couple of runners to the camp, we'll have an army.”

Exchanging a glance with the tactical officer standing opposite, the communicator said, “Who do you plan on sending, sir?”

“I was going to ask for volunteers. Have them take one of the transports up. And decoys. We'd need decoys.”

“Yes sir,” the tactician agreed gruffly, “It's going to be hard enough to punch through the airborne forces out there while maintaining a ground defence. I've got scouts out looking for underground access roots but the last Simfur governemnt didn't develop the sub-strata very well –”

“Sir!” The communicator cut him off. “Incoming signal, priority override!” She convulsed and transformed, the broadcast codes forcing her into base-station mode.

A hologram filled the air above her, a stern-face feme staring angrily down at them all. _“Captain Ci-636. You have overstepped your function. Stand down immediately and return control of Simfur to the local authorities.”_

“Overseer Rff-52,” the captain grated, not changing his stance in the slightest, “Your orders are no longer recognised.”

_“Because I am attempting to work with the Council?”_

“They betrayed Tarn. You have betrayed Tarn.”

The Overseer narrowed her optics. _“The Council has made a mistake. They are debating how to put it right at this very moment. Logic demands you stand down immediately to prove we are not beyond reason.”_

“Logic demands we acquire safe refuge for our people!” Ci-636 shouted back, “If you will not help with that, you are the enemy! Let your fellow traitors know that if any move is made against us, we will start killing the hostages! End transmission! And lock out all external communications! I don't want to hear any more of their lies!”

“I'll . . . try, sir,” the communicator said, struggling back into bipedal form. The effort to fight the override put a visible strain on her and the tactician had to steady her.

He flapped his wings and then stilled abruptly. “Captain . . . they're moving in. The Defence Directorate. And – I can't contact the south perimeter anti-aircraft posts.”

“Sound battle alert! All soldiers, shoot to kill! We will hold this place! For our brothers! For the new Tarn! We must! Our brothers will come to our aid, if we set them free or they do it themselves! They will!” Optics blazing, Ci-636 turned and stabbed a finger at the representatives. “Take these two out into the open and slag them! We'll show the world what happens to those who stand in Tarn's way!”

 

* * *

“ **The Kalis Concession** **”**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

Driving at top speed, Diatrion reached the emergency barricade just in time to see an incensed earth-mover slam straight through it. Scattering riot shields and the Guardsmechs holding them in all directions, the massive vehicle cleared a path for the equally enraged people behind him. They boiled out, a crowd of Tarnian workers and decommissioned soldiers, all determined to use what power they had left to make a run for Simfur. Not all the refugees, not by a very long shot, but enough to cause trouble. Enough to cause harm.

Putting everything he had into his engine, Diatrion held his course and drove straight for the earth-mover. The blade filled his vision, a sheer wall of pitted industrial green. The size of it reminded him unpleasantly of Earthquake. He heard the earth-mover laugh.

At the very last instant, he swerved around the blade, transformed and activated his riot shield. The rapid expansion of the forcefield hit the earth-mover broadside on, creating an electromagnetic flare that knocked him clean out of vehicle mode. He crashed messily to the ground, smoke rising from his limbs.

Diatrion landed neatly behind him, shield burnt out by the stunt. He threw the smouldering device aside and activated his blaster. Four military-grade Tarnians loomed over him, faces displaying varying degrees of extreme displeasure at seeing their compatriot go down.

“Stand where you are,” he said, half-raising his gun, all too aware of the time he needed to buy the Guardsmechs converging on his position, “By the authority of the Inter-state Accords, I am charging you with disturbing the peace. Please come quietly or I will take appropriate action.”

The Tarnians looked at him, then at each other. One of them laughed. Another turned his forearm into a very large hammer and struck Diatrion full-force in the chest.

He managed to get off several shots as he flew through the air, hitting a couple of the mechs with stun-bolts, which had about the same effect as pelting a mountain with hex-nuts. Rolling with the landing, he got back to his feet just as they came thundering after him, swinging fists and assorted in-built blunt objects at his head. Deploying a baton in his left hand and firing repeatedly, he was able to keep them from caving in his torso, if barely. They were too close though, too fast. He was quickly overwhelmed. Stripping the soldiers of their ranged weapons and in-built defences in theory made them less dangerous but they were still engineered to full military standards, with all the speed and precision that entailed. Running on fumes and anger, they were still a match for him one-on-one. Against four, at close quarters, he was not going to –

Engine roaring, an armoured six-wheeler in Defence Directorate livery rammed its way through the Tarnians' legs, knocking three of them clean over and staggering the fourth. The truck transformed and, planting himself between Diatrion and the rioters, punched the still-standing Tarnian in the face. With the space directly in front of him thus cleared, he snatched a curved black panel from his back and drove it forcibly into the ground.

The Tarnian with the hammer scrambled up and lurched forward again, just in time to run head-first into the heavy-duty energy-field that came spewing out of the panel.

It was the same technology as the riot-shields, scaled up to provide protection from artillery barrages. The Tarnian rebounded off it with a yelp, armour singed. His friends backed off a little, recognising what they were up against and that beating it with their fists would do no good. Another sheet of flickering energy sprang up beside the first, a second Defence Directorate soldier laying the foundation unit, followed by another on the other side. Soon there was a wall of shields stretching across the entire street, a far more effective barricade than the Guardsmechs alone had been able to create.

The red and blue mech turned. “Are you all right?” he asked, eyeing Diatrion with concern.

“Mostly. Thank –”

Diatrion flung himself forward, seizing the other mech bodily around the chest. A crate sailed over the top of the barrier and crashed down with impressive force on the ground they had just vacated. Stuck on the other side of the shield, the Tarnian responsible growled with annoyance at missing.

“Thank you,” Diatrion continued, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Shouldn't I be the one saying that now?” the Defence Directorate soldier asked wryly. Going by his rank insignia, he was a lieutenant commander and the unit badge placed him in Megatron's battalion. He tilted his head towards the barrier and beamed something into the ether. Micro-cycles later, flyers started dropping down between the buildings and embedding extra projectors in their walls, creating angled fields on top of the ones on the ground, positioned to deflect anything else the Tarnians felt like throwing.

The lieutenant commander helped Diatrion up. “You look very familiar,” he commented as Diatrion too processed the similarities between their base forms.

“Mech Trion Novus Zar.”

“Likewise. Good to meet a line-brother. What do you make of the situation?”

Diatrion looked at the Tarnians. “Concerning.”

“I assume they want to reach Simfur. Help their comrades steal the city.” The other mech shook his head, sadly it seemed. “I thought we were starting to get them to listen to reason.”

“If your Commander can contain the situation across the border, perhaps they will.”

“Perhaps. Good move with your riot shield, by the way. Quick thinking.”

Diatrion hummed non-committally, checking his systems. Luckily, the damage to his armour was largely superficial. “If I had thought it through more, I would have tried to land a bit further away from his friends.”

“No one's perfect. Optrion,” the soldier introduced himself properly, saluting.

“Diatrion.” He returned the salute, then pointed east, to the next block of buildings and the alarms emanating from within. “It looks like that will be the next flash-point. Can your soldiers help us intercept it?”

Optrion flexed and transformed, engine revving up. “We're at your side, officer. Lead the way.”

 

* * *

**Central District**

**Simfur**

**Cybertron**

 

Ci-636 lived to protect Tarn. It was his sole function, his reason for existing. The High Governor had personally selected him for the Fortress programme: he had been a logical choice for transformation into a living arsenal.

The restructuring had been excruciating. Far more than a simple reformatting, it had stretched the limits of what his basic form could support and ultimately broken them so that he could become something immeasurably more powerful. The core of his being had been torn open and rebuilt through Viilon's science. Memory of that pain sang in every facet of his body, as heady a fuel as the weapons-grade energon on which he thrived. It bound him to his city, sealed his loyalty with sacrifice. He would have defended Tarn to the death.

Only it had been Tarn's death, not his. Vosian treachery had snatched away the reason for his existence while his back was turned, leaving him stranded in a foreign city, without orders, without backup, without purpose.

In the dark, shameful depths of his spark, Ci-636 would sooner have died in the fire storm.

There was only one way to live on after that. The Simfur rebels were already incapable of holding their state without outside support. Sweeping aside their joke of a government would be a simple matter and from then on, the city would become the focus of a new Logical Revolution. The refugees would be liberated from the Council-created Pit to which they had been abandoned. In time, the people of Simfur would come to realise how much better off they were under Tarnian guidance. Viilon's vision would come to pass once more. The pain of the transition would sing in its every perfect line, another worthwhile sacrifice.

It would be glorious. A triumph that would stand forever while every other state fell to confusion and –

“ _Captain!”_ The communicator's voice was frantic. _“The whole east line has collapsed! We can't –”_

“Stand fast!” Ci-636 shouted, routing every last fraction of power into his weapons. He fired again and again, looking past the overheating warnings that crowded his vision to watch the world explode. Defence Directorate troops blazed away to nothing under the rain of shells he brought down upon them. Let them burn. Let all who opposed the future burn.

“ _Captain, we cannot hold position – there are too many of them, coming in too fast. If we do not fall back –”_ The tactician was cut off in a scream of static.To the north of the Hall of Governance, an entire tower sagged and tilted, another vantage point lost to the enemy.

“Keep fighting! We are Tarnian! We do not give ground!” Silence answered the rallying cry. The channels buzzed emptily around Ci-636, the few soldiers who still stood with him focused entirely on defending themselves. The Defence Directorate's counter-attack tore through their remaining cover, splinter grenades dropping mechs in clouds of energised shrapnel.

Ci-626's main cannons burnt out in a final burst of screaming agony. He transformed, raising an arm to shield himself from the next bomb burst. The world was awash with interference, the shapes of the enemy distorted and constantly in motion. He activated as many of his secondary weapons as he could, unfolding guns from his hands and shins. Let them come closer. Let them fight him face to face. They would all fall.

A silver tank hurtled out of the smoke and fired point-blank into his body. He retaliated, routing himself away from the sections of his body that melted under the onslaught. The tank weaved deftly around his shots and transformed, fists swinging in a punch that knocked him sideways. The body of one of his mechs crunched beneath his feet as he righted himself, his weight too much for it to bear.

Grim fury filling every processor, Ci-636 backhanded the tank with all his strength. The silver mech was bowled over, flung into a wall hard enough to cave it in. Ci-636 levelled his blasters. “Die,” he commanded.

But in the instant he fired, an energy burst struck him across the face, making him turn, throwing the shot wide. Dazzled, he reeled and saw belatedly a group of mechs approaching from the Hall of Governance, a deep black quad loping along at their head. The one who had fired ran beside him, gun still raised. Impossibly, it was the damned Simfur Representative, Correear.

“I ordered you killed!” Ci-636 roared, switching his aim, fully intending to correct the disobedience.

“And I ordered them saved.” The silver tank's fist crashed through the weakened armour on his abdomen and punctured his inner structure.

He screamed, in shock and horror at the speed with which the warrior breached his defences. He reached for his head, determined to crush it. And suddenly the black quad was on him, claws and fangs scraping his armour, tail slicing across his gun barrels. The tank pressed his advantage and tore Ci-636 wide open. The Tarnian stumbled backwards., frantically trying to pull the quad loose. There was a moment in which he thought he would succeed. Then the tank pushed a laser rifle into the breach and fired over and over.

Radiation bursts filled Ci-636 with heat and light. His fuel lines ruptured and ignited. He could not move his spark fast enough and essential parts of his being fragmented as his processors flash-fried. He fell slowly, his great fortress body collapsing, motors blown apart. The world toppled and pitched and the future whirled out of his grasp. His senses began to fail, sound and sensation lost to the fire that was consuming him. Distantly, he felt hammer-blows smashing his joints, crippling what was left until there was no hope of struggling against his fate.

The last things he saw before his consciousness shattered into darkness were his killer's optics staring down at him with a crimson intensity that could only have been Tarnian.

 


	11. Shattered

**Central District**

**Simfur**

**Cybertron**

 

Megatron watched as the last embers of the Fortress' life ebbed away. Around him, his troops rolled in to secure the government buildings. Soon the sounds of battle had receded entirely into the distance and there was just the chatter and scramble of taking prisoners, patching up the wounded and calming down the civilians.

“Do people who came to power by armed rebellion actually count as civilians?” Ravage wondered, slinking up to his side.

Megatron did not reply. The colour was fading from the Fortress' armour now. Soon he would be reduced to nothing more than dead metal and memories. One more death with no meaning.

“You do not appear especially pleased by your victory.”

Stepping away from the corpse, Megatron retracted his rifle. “What exactly do I have to be pleased about? More dead soldiers? Another pointless waste of time and energy?” He sneered at the wreckage surrounding them. “This was no victory!”

“Nevertheless.” Ravage glanced towards the Simfur representatives, “I believe there are some people here who will want to congratulate you on it.”

“Tell them I am needed in the west sectors.” Megatron transformed with a snarl.

Ravage made no reply as he drove off but he felt the quad's gaze on his back long after leaving him behind.

 

* * *

 

“ **The Kalis Concession** **”**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

With a groan, Optrion submitted to Ratchet's order and sank into a sitting position that gave the medic easy access to the back of his head. “You must have other patients to attend to.”

“No. I've dealt with all of them. Or had other people do it for me. That's why I have minions.”

“You mean your highly trained subordinates?”

“That's what I said.”

Ratchet's fingers played across the damage to his skull, distantly sparking broken receptors. Optrion relaxed and let him work. Soldiers and Guardsmechs bustled around them, busy with the task of clearing up after the riot. A lot of inert bodies were being wheeled past in various states of stasis lock. There was a certain amount of confusion as to what they were supposed to do with the Tarnian rioters: were they supposed to take them to one of the Civic Guard bases, or a Defence Directorate facility, or just throw them back among their brethren? For now a temporary holding pen had been set up using the heavy-duty shields to hold them while they recovered from being arrested. It struck Optrion that this basically amounted to pushing the problem into a smaller box but it was not as if he could see a better solution.

Engineers flitted around, assessing the buildings – well, what passed for buildings within the Concession. Going by what he could overhear, there was considerable debate about how much of the damage was down to the riot and how much was just the result of the stalled uplift. Either way, there would be less usable space than ever.

Flocks of sky-spies orbited overhead, watching everything. And behind them –

Ratchet rapped his primary audio pick-up. “Hey, optics down here until I've got your trunk connection stable again.”

“Sorry.”

“What's so interesting up there anyway?”

“The media. Airborne and in force.” Diatrion stepped into Optrion's line of sight, head turned to observe the flyers silhouetting themselves against the clouds. “Every time the perimeter patrols try to clear them out, they just move on to another vantage. Sorry,” he added, “I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“Please do. I've not been able to get a polite conversation out of Ratchet for stellar cycles.”

“Oh look. I think I can rewire your vocoder into your secondary motive lattice so that you make amusing noises every time you move your head.”

“Please don't.” Optrion waved Diatrion closer. “Don't mind us. Ratchet takes it personally when people get themselves caught in the line of fire. Have any of those newsfeed mechs interfered with the relief effort?”

“Not so far. I'm sure it will only a matter of time before one of them crosses a transport's flight-path while trying to get the perfect picture.” The Guardsmech threw another dubious look skywards. “But until they do, we don't have grounds to disperse them. No one's issued any edicts barring news coverage of the camps.”

“It is in the public interest . . . and it might be a good thing. Raise awareness of what's happening here.”

“Sure,” Ratchet muttered, “Maybe the two of you can get a guest-spot on the Grand Slam Report. 'How I got myself half-killed: a pair of blown diodes tell all!'”

Diatrion's optics widened. He looked questioningly at Optrion, who smiled. “Ratchet believes we have a death-wish in common.”

“Oh.” A brief silence suggested to Optrion that the other mech was considering how to respond to this. Sensibly, he decided to change the subject. “Your commander has been on the ground talking to some of the Tarnians who weren't involved in the rioting.”

“Megatron's back from Simfur?” Optrion nearly stood up.

“No, the other one – Commander Jaantanon.”

“Yeah, that sounds like him.” Ratchet's fingers found their way to the spinal connection, momentarily whiting-out Optrion's vision. “Always likes that personal touch in a crisis.”

“You've served under him?”

“The last time I was rotated on to homeworld defence. That would have been a couple of stellar-cycles after the Kolidahl campaign. He's not the best there is but he's not the worst.” Which was not an opinion Optrion would have shared in front of a civilian, but then Ratchet was not one to let propriety stand in the way of making a cutting observation.

“He's making a good first impression,” Diatrion said evenly, smoothing past any awkwardness by ignoring it, “I think that is going to count for a lot.”

“And what kind of impression are the rest of us making?” Optrion lifted a finger to tap his right optic. “I can't imagine the mood being very good after all . . . this.”

“Not really. Though even some of the Tarnians seem grateful we stopped the rioting.”

“Who knew having one home blown to the Pit would make you worried about some hyped-up slag-flinger smashing up the next one?” With more force than was strictly necessary, Ratchet snapped the armour on the back of Optrion's head closed. “You're done. Any chance of you _not_ getting your primary sensors caved in again for at least a quartex?”

“I'll have the next riot rescheduled immediately.” Optrion got up and stretched. He put a hand on the medic's shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Any time. 'Least, that's what you make it feel like. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to find that lieutenant of yours and find out just how far he's tested that famous hide of his this time.”

“The next riot?” Diatrion repeated as Ratchet drove away, “You expect another?”

“I hope not. However, any halfway decent soldier knows that you put your hopes in a safe place and leave them there while you make your battle-plans.”

“Halfway decent Guardsmechs know the same thing.”

“So what is it I can do for you, Investigator?” Optrion took a few steps forward to assess his balance. “You do seem like the kind of person who would check on someone purely to make sure they had received the necessary medical attention – but I have the feeling that's not entirely why you're here.”

“Not entirely. I wanted to ask whether you had any idea what is going to happen with the rioters we've arrested?”

Automatically, Optrion glanced across at the holding pen again. “Sorry for taking advantage of your repairs,” Diatrion continued, “I thought given your rank that you might have been told. This isn't an official inquiry, I'm just a little concerned about . . .”

“About what is going to happen now that we have effectively recreated the same conditions that led to the riot in miniature.” Optrion folded his arms. “The same thing is worrying me.”

Diatrion shook his head. “It's not just that.” He pointed at the pen, at the mechs inside. “Those are the Tarnians we have been able to arrest. They are not, however, all those identified as being part of the riot. We believe many of the ones we can't account for probably escaped into the ruins in the confusion.” Shifting his finger, he indicated the direction in which Tarn had stood, then swung around to point into the Concession. “And in there are all the Tarnians refugees who saw us imprison their brothers. What do we do if more of them decide they want to take action? What do we do with people who break the law in any case? Vos and Tarn are not states any more. They have been thrown out of the Council, effectively dissolved as legal bodies. So under whose legislature do the survivors fall?” He stopped and grimaced. “Sorry. I don't actually expect you to answer most of those questions. I would just very much like to know if you are aware of action being taken that I am not.”

“No,” Optrion said quietly, “I wish I were, so I could at least reassure you that something was being done.”

Disappointment briefly showed under Diatrion's carefully controlled surface. “I see. I . . . cannot say I'm surprised by that answer.”

“You'd hoped for more though?”

“I'm a Guardsmech. Like I said, we learn not to hope things that could make our lives easier.”

Optrion reached out and gripped his shoulder. “A solution will present itself given enough time and effort. Hope for that at least.”

The investigator managed an unconvincing smile. “I'll try.”

Optrion would have made a greater effort to cheer him up but before he could say anything more, an incoming communication tripped his transceivers. They shrieked in his head for the instant it took him to desperately retune them. Clearly Ratchet had decided to leave him a memento for his recklessness after all. He put his finger to his audio in the universal symbol that he was receiving a transmission and Diatrion nodded understanding. “Thank you for your time,” he said and strode away.

“Optrion.”

“ _Good afternoon Lieutenant Commander,”_ Ravage purred across the airwaves, _“I hear you stopped a riot. Congratulations.”_

“Not on my own. What's the situation in Simfur?”

“ _Confused. We're still securing the city.”_

“Do you need reinforcements?”

“ _I doubt it,”_ the communicator scoffed, _“No. I need to know whether we have the capacity to house additional prisoners at this point.”_

“How many?” Optrion asked, frowning across at a couple of soldiers hefting yet another unconscious rioter into the holding pen.

“ _No less than seventeen. Possibly no more. The Tarnians are not surrendering easily.”_

“Understandable, from their perspective. We have the physical space at the moment but you're talking about adding in more Tarnian soldiers. Even ten more would be a serious risk to our ability to contain them, never mind the fact that they wouldn't be nearly as energy-starved as the rest.”

“ _We can drain their tanks. Take their fuel and give it to the refugees, yes?”_

“Maybe forty percent of the rioters today were injured and poorly fuelled soldiers. They were still quite capable of causing havoc.” Never mind the ethical considerations of draining someone's fuel without their consent. “Striping them of their weapons didn't dissuade them much either.”

“ _That's all very well, I'm sure.”_ Ravage managed to put a sneer into his signal. _“However it's a choice between taking them ourselves or leaving them in the hands of the Simfurian – I actually do not know who exactly these people are. One of the revolutionary factions. Or counter-revolutionary. Whichever, I_ do _know they don't have any official recognition from the Council. They are also very angry with the Tarnians. I am new to this whole 'taking prisoners' activity but is it not considered poor form to leave helpless captives in the hands of those who would wish to summarily dismember them?”_

Putting himself in the position of a newly liberated Simfurian, especially one of the rebels betrayed by the Tarnians who had supposedly come to their aid, Optrion found it all too easy to imagine the appeal of that outcome. It was also easy to imagine quite how incensed the refugees and assorted prisoners in the Concession might become if they heard that the Defence Directorate abandoned their brothers to such a fate. “What does Megatron want us to do?”

There was a very, very slight silence before Ravage said, _“I will let you know when he resumes contact.”_

“He's gone silent?” That was all sorts of worrying. Optrion half-turned in the direction of Simfur, ready to leap into vehicle mode.

“ _He is engaging the Tarnian hold-outs in the west of the city. I presume he will make a final decision upon the completion of the battle.”_

“Then why –” He stopped short of asking incredulously why Ravage was taking an action that could even potentially have been taken as deferring to a Lieutenant Commander at a remote location over the Field Commander on the scene. This was unbelievable less for the breach of protocol as for the idea that Ravage would ever defer to anyone other than Megatron. “I'm sending you the latest situation report of the aftermath of the riot. I can update it again once he is in a position to attend to the prisoners.”

“ _I will certainly pass the information on. The problem is that I have seventeen Tarnian soldiers in stasis lock and potentially not enough troops to keep them safely captive. Besides which, they need medical attention. I think they've been through enough without suffering permanent damage on top of everything else, don't you?”_

Perhaps if they redeployed a few of the medics into the inter-city plains, they could meet a prison party half-way . . . the Civic Guard units could be repositioned to take up the slack on-site . . . Optrion realised abruptly that he was thinking like a mech out on an alien planet, responsible to and supported by only a single battalion. “I'll contact Jaantanon and appraise him of what's happening. We might be able to send assistance to your position and evacuate the Tarnians.”

“ _I'm obliged.”_ The link cut out abruptly with nothing more but a curt sign-off signal.

Optrion pinged the local command net to locate Jaantanon and only as he did so did it occur to him to wonder why Ravage had not contacted the Homeworld Defence field commander directly. Was it just that going to Optrion was less personally distasteful? Or was the another reason? For example, as of now, going to Jaantanon was entirely Optrion's idea. If there were to be any repercussions or anger on Mergatron's part for such a bypassing of his authority, they would fall squarely on his head.

A troubling thought. Probably just that. After all, whatever his attitude, Ravage was loyal to a fault and it was perfectly reasonable to seek assistance in a situation of which none of Meagtron's soldiers really had any practical experience. Nevertheless, as he sped off to Jaantanon's position, Optrion could not escape the feeling that he had just been manipulated.

 

* * *

 

**Second West District**

**Simfur**

**Cybertron**

 

Megatron let the limp body fall from his grasp and tumble down the incline towards the train lines. This part of the city was built into a rise in the landscape, a feature that offered a vantage point on which the elite could build their dwellings. Palaces studded the hillside in ascending order of opulence, each a walled fortress against the unclean masses on whose backs the power of the few had been built. That made it a logical place for the last few Tarnain soldiers to dig in.

Not that their logic was going to save them.

He watched the dead tank slide over the parapet above the tracks then raised his optics past the scattered remains of the soldier's armour and the broken fragments of boundary wall. At some point during the frenetic brawl, as he mjade the futile attempt to bring the other mech down without resorting to fully lethal measures, one or other of them had caved in the side of one of the buildings. Fine metalwork hung limply from the edges of the hole like a lot of noxious plants lurking just inside an off-world cave: the artistic treasures of some Simfurian oligarch laid bare and useless by the fury of battle.

More importantly, Megatron's sensors suggested that the ambient heat of the interior was consistent with one, maybe two mechs using it for cover.

He got almost immediate confirmation as pulsed cannon-fire scorched his chest and shoulder. Evading a second volley, he transformed and charged uphill, pouring energy into his drive systems at the expense of his defences and relying on the density of his armour to protect him. It was a safe bet. The shots came fast but under-powered, inflicting only superficial damage. Compared to some of the things he had weathered, even in the last day, it was a laughably ineffective assault.

Treads roaring, he hurtled into the building, smashing the hole that bit wider as he went. A slender mech – possibly a feme, they were right on the edge of visual identification – sprang out of his path, taking a last shot at him as they went. The long gun barrel in which their left arm terminated glowed into the visual spectrum and vapour curled from the moderator units on their shoulder. Megatron suspected that if they tried to fire again, the weapon would either blow up or simply sputter out entirely.

He stood up, grateful that a faster-than-average transformation speed for his size meant there was minimal time for the other soldier to react. They flinched and backed away, levelling their gun-arm ready to fire that one last shot.

Taking even, firm steps, Megatron advanced.

“Stay back!”

“Stand down.” His voice was deafening in comparison to the soldier's crackling cry, filling the . . . whatever the room was. An art gallery or something equally facile. “I am not your enemy.”

“Not my –” The gunner bit down on utter disbelief. “You tear apart my – _you_ say you're not the enemy?!”

“I am here to restore order. Nothing more. Lower your weapon and that will be the end of it.”

“End of _what_? My freedom? My honour? You want to throw me in a hole to starve with the rest of my people?”

Megatron set his shoulders just a little bit wider, all the better to loom. “You have attempted conquest of a sovereign state. I could do much worse.”

“No kidding!” The gun barrel danced erratic shapes in the air. “Are you going to break me to bits too? How many of us have you killed already?! Are there any Tarnians left?!”

Megatron stopped. A micro-cycle later, the gunner bumped against the wall behind them, their optics widening with the realisation that they were backed into an actual corner. “There are a great many left,” Megatron told them, “and you do them no service by this stupidity. If you really care for honour, you will come peacefully so that you can help them rebuild.”

“Rebuild!” It seemed everything the gunner said came out in incredulous bursts. “Rebuild in an ionised wasteland! Rebuild with our energon stolen and our soldiers disarmed! Rebuild with so many of our people dead!” Their optics blazed orange behind their visor. “Maybe I should be grateful you're going to kill me! Better a quick end now than a lingering one later!”

They had been in each other's company long enough for Megatron's tactical systems to have determined that the gunner was likely a mech but one so heavily altered to accommodate the weapon that was surely the focus of their other form that they nearly equalled the efficiency of a feme. The lack of weathering on their armour separate from the recent battle damage indicated it was relatively new. They seemed . . . young. And very scared. All the bluster, all the anger and yet they were trembling, optics darting around for a way out. A warrior made but untested, unseasoned, thrust into a situation beyond comprehension, outside the safe confines of logic, unthinkable.

Had this little soldier ever even imagined there could be so much death in the world?

Ever so slightly relaxing his stance, Megatron bowed his head. “I don't make idle threats. I don't make idle promises either. And I promise you, whatever I have had to do today, I am doing what is best for Cybertron and for your people. If you stand down now, you will be treated with dignity and with as much honour as is possible and you will have a chance to help salvage this mess. If you prefer clinging to some foolish idea of pride and enacting this pointless rebellion, I will _have_ to stop you.” He opened his right hand, black digits flexing into something approximating a sign of invitation. Slowly, he lifted his arm, offering the hand to the gunner.

The Tarnian's optics locked on to the open palm, weapon finally stopping its crazed oscillation. Smoke still trailed from their moderators as energy swirled within their body. Somewhere outside, the sounds of cannon fire split the air, mixed with the thrum and growling of motors. Inside, there was only the faint noises of a wrecked building settling and the background whine of the gunner's damaged generators.

“I would sooner –” they began defiantly.

The blast from Megatron's laser rifle melted clean through their chest and through the wall behind them. Their weapon exploded in the next instant, a shout of heat that set light to the air. Screaming, they collapsed, skin running in streams of molten slag. Standing firm in the face of the explosion, Megatron fired again and then once more to make sure.

“Regroup on my position,” he barked across the command channel, “We push on to the top together.” As he left, his echoing footfalls on the elaborately tiled floor were almost enough to overwhelm the sizzling pop of the gunner's remains burning out.

 

* * *

 

“ **The Kalis Concession** **”**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _More_ prisoners? You can't be serious!”

Diatrion tried and failed to think of a way to express how deadly serious he was being. “We need to contain them while they're patched up and decommissioned. Preferably away from the main bulk of the refugees for now, at least until they've cooled down enough to not be an immediate risk to public safety.”

“Right.” Clutch slapped the side of his helm and spun his wheels. “How about one of the moons? I'd say that'd be just far enough. And maybe give them a few hundred stellar cycles, I think that could just be long enough for them to get over what's happened.”

“More seriously,” Talainat said, pulling them back into the realms of practical reality, “can we get some more of those siege shields the soldiers used?”

“Yes, but only five. They're requisitioning more but it'll take time for those to arrive. Anyway,” Diatrion added, “constantly pouring power into force-field projectors isn't going to help anyone in the long-run. What about those spring-up walls the engineers were using to support some of the half-formed buildings? They can take a lot of punishment and they are designed to interlock.”

“Only problem is they're all being used to hold up those buildings,” Clutch pointed out, “Look, investigator . . . Can I talk to you for a cycle?”

Talainat promptly excused himself, taking the hint. “I'll go and see if any of the emergency supports can be spared.”

“What's the matter?” Diatrion asked once the two of them were alone.

Clutch's kick to the ground threw up a shower of stones and metal fragments. “How long a list d'you want?”

“I'd appreciate specifics.”

“What the slag is going on here?”

“That's still not –”

“We're all exhausted, pulling double, triple shifts just to keep up with the repair work and supply distribution. We've just come out of a riot and it's probably not going to be the last. Now you're telling us that we're going to be looking after prisoners of war – prisoners of war! Ember and Pit! We're workin' ourselves offline here – and I can't tell what for!” Armour clattering, the veteran White-and-Blue whirled his arms. “We have a bunch of mechs cased up and what for? Who's laws are we holding them under? When are they going to get a trial? Are these Tarnians being dragged back here in stasis lock going to be judged for crimes against Simfur? Who the slag is _running_ Simfur anyway?! We came here to help the refugees – now what are we? Commander Megatron's personal police force?”

There was fury in the old mech's optics. Diatrion could not really blame him but knew he was not in a position where he could share that anger. His mind went back to his conversation with Optrion. “We are doing what we have to. We can't hope for an immediate solution, we just have to do what we can here and now.”

“Great. Brilliant. But what's the plan? Where's this all going?”

Horribly aware of his own concerns being thrown back in his face, Diatrion shook his head. “I don't know. But there are a lot of people working on figuring that out.”

“Are there? Really? All right then, you just ask yourself this: who's in charge?”

“What?”

“Who's runnin' this show? For us Guardsmechs, I mean. Who do we report to?”

“To the Magnus' Office. This is a planetary operation, it's under his direct auspices.”

Clutch growled in frustration. “No, I mean here, right here, right now! Who's in charge of Civic Guard operations in this damn Pit Megatron's built for us all?”

“Well, it's . . .” There was no answer. Almost from the word go, amidst all the confusion, they had been feeding information into and taking their cues from the Defence Directorate command network, sharing duties with the military officers, reacting with a kind of cooperative aimlessness to every new problem. There was no Guard Base to coordinate them, no authority to defer to on local matters, no law other than the Inter-State Accords, which were great for dealing with serious crimes like murder and fuel-theft, far less use for prioritising medical care or handling virulent factional hatred.

Clutch saw him struggling for a response and his faceplates twisted. “Exactly. No one's taking responsibility, no one's taking a lead. We're relying on a bunch of fragging _soldiers_ and Devourer take me if I can see one blasted hint that anyone's planning on how these people get a future.” He jabbed a finger at the scene twisted buildings and shuffling refugees spread out before them.

Diatrion stared where he pointed, feeling as though he were back in that warehouse, Earthquake's flailing fist knocking him over the ledge once more. “That doesn't mean –”

“Diatrion! Clutch!”

Talainat came back at a run, waving frantically. “We've got a big problem,” he said as he reached them, “ _Another_ big problem.”

“Oh what now?” Clutch asked, taking both words and tone straight out of Diatrion's vocaliser.

“They're bringing in the first batch of Vosian off-world miners. They'll be here within the quartex.” Talainat pressed his hands to his neck. “And the Vosians already know.”

 

* * *

 

“Welcome back, Commander.”

In person, Jaantanon's voice had a booming quality that would have betrayed his origins in the Sonic Canyons if his helicopter form and distinct facial structure had not already done so. That it was perhaps the worst fault Megatron could identify about the homeworld soldier spoke volumes as to how great an improvement he was over the last one he'd been forced to share leadership with.

“Thank you . . . Commander.” Fatigued as he was by the battle in Simfur – in spark as much as in body – it was a struggle to force the pleasantry through his mouth. He managed it though and was even able to summon the will to return the heli-mech's salute. “And . . . thank you for sending air support to assist with the evacuation of the . . . Tarnian soldiers.” It seemed wrong to speak of them as prisoners, not when they were so much the worse for their attempted crimes.

“Not at all. Thank that adept Lieutenant Commander of yours. He had the extraction plan all worked out by the time he reached me with the news that you need assistance.” Jaantanon grinned. “He was very deferment about it. Is he risking your wrath in coming to me for help?”

A firm shake of his head was Megatron's answer to that. “It was the correct thing to do.” As he would have seen at the time were he not distracted by the noxious requirement of fighting those who only sought a place for themselves in their world. “Optrion can be relied on to do what is correct. As can Ravage.” He spared a glance for his lieutenant, hovering a little way behind him. There was gratitude to be expressed there too, when there was no audience.

Looking back meant he saw the stasis-locked Tarnians being carried down from the transports and Air Guardians in which they had been flown from Simfur. Another collection of battered and broken forms to be passed into Ratchet's care. Another set of remnants to mark too many lost to nothingness.

“A sorry sight, isn't it?” Jaantanon intoned. He clasped his hands behind his back while the rotors on his shoulders spun slow circles. “Such a waste. And so self-defeating.”

“They were angry and afraid for their future. It's not something I blame them for.”

“Oh, don't mistake me. I understand it. It just seems remarkably selfish.”

Megatron tensed, only to discover that he did not entirely disagree. “Perhaps.”

“Commander. _Commanders_ ,” Ravage corrected, slinking up beside them, “I hate to interrupt but there is a . . . new development.”

Pent up rage surged through Megatron's systems. He wanted to lash out, kick Ravage far, far away just so he would not have to hear whatever fresh doom the communicator was going to speak. His hands spasmed. The Tarnian captain, the tank, the gunner and so many more paraded in his thoughts, each proudly wearing the deaths their stubbornness had led them to. “WHAT THE SLAG IS IT NOW?!” he thundered, self-control abandoned as every dent and broken plate on his body seemed to scream out at once.

Ravage did not flinch, did not back down. Just held his gaze and said, “There appears to be a situation developing at one of the landing pads.”

 

* * *

 

“So they're dragging our brothers back to stick them in here to starve with the rest of us! So they think they can just do that and take our fuel, the fuel we _need_! Fine! Let 'em come! But this is where they have to land those ships, so we're gonna sit right here and make sure they can't and they'll just have turn around and fly all those mechs who just want to get on with their jobs right the slag back to where they took 'em from!”

“I wonder when they'll realise we can just land the cruisers somewhere else and send the miners over-land?” Trailbreaker fiddled with the gun-nozzle extending from his wrist. He nodded towards the dirt-encrusted maroon and white workmaster who was doing most of the shouting. “Or that it's going to be days before that ship gets anywhere near Cybertron?”

There were maybe thirty Vosians sitting on the make-shift landing pad, which had been built a little way outside the Concession to allow large vessels to offload supplies. They ranged in size and shape, function and form, not to mention states of repair. Whatever their physical differences, however, they evidently shared the determination to sit there, stare down the Defence Directorate and see who rusted first.

Between them and the crowd they had attracted, Optrion could not help noticing that there really was nothing stopping the refugees from going wherever they wanted. The Concession had no walls and there was only a nominal guard on the boundary. It was something he imagined was going to cause them trouble later, on top of the rioters it had already allowed to escape.

As for the more immediate trouble . . . “At least they're relatively peaceful. If not quiet.”

The workmaster launched into yet another polemic against those responsible for this latest attack on the Vosian people. If he was a little unclear on who that was, it made little difference to his audience. Their raggedly echoing of his invective lent them the air of a discordant religious gathering.

“They don't have to _stay_ peaceful,” Trailbreaker muttered, fingering his gun again.

Unfortunately true. There were, by Optrions reckoning, as many Tarnians on the edges of the impromptu protest as there were Vosian onlookers and far too many sideways glances for his liking. Nothing immediately murderous but a lot of hostility. As was only to be expected. Across the pad, he could see Diatrion and some of his Guardsmechs, looking as nervous as the handful of soldiers Optrion had been able to gather up. There were demonstrably too few of them to disperse the Vosians with force, which left their options neatly limited to 'wait' and 'see what happens next.'

In a clatter of rotors and treads, Jaantanon and Megatron swept out on to the landing pad. “Why are these people still here?” the silver tank shouted, “MOVE THEM!”

Optrion came to attention, this being the only way he could stand his ground in the face of Megatron's furious tone. “With the greatest of respect sir –”

Jaantanon spoke over him before he could embarrass himself. “They're just sitting here and shouting?”

“Ah – yessir. They – well, as you can hear, sir, they intend to prevent the transport bringing Vosian miners back from Karpela Dion from landing.”

“They're planning on sitting here all quartex?”

“That does seem to be their intention.”

A deep grinding noise came from Megatron's vocaliser. “So they'll starve. Or get knocked offline by the weather and the dust. And in the meantime, they'll block the supplies needed by everyone here! Lieutenant Commander, do your job and GET THESE FOOLS OFF THIS LANDING PAD!”

“Uh, sirs? Would that include those . . .uh, civilians too?”

Trailbreaker pointed. While they had been talking, a group of people had broken away from the crowd and marched solemnly out to the protesters. Given the profusion of heavy forms among them, there was no mistaking that they were Tarnians. They faced the Vosians and everyone watching froze at once. The workmaster stared up from where he sat, tirade petering out.

Then the lead Tarnian, a burly feme, sat down. “May we join you?” she asked, loudly enough that they could all hear, “They're planning on shovin' our brothers in here too.”

Wordlessly, in twos and threes, the rest of the Tarnians followed her example. After a cycle, the workmaster began shouting again. The next time his fellow protesters echoed his words, they were echoed in turn by new voices, just as angry, just as determined.

“Well now I've seen everything,” Jaantanon said, voicing what they were all surely thinking. “Maybe in the spirit of the moment, we should just leave them be for now. We can always encourage them to leave later, when they've worn themselves out. What do you think, Commander?”

He looked at Megatron. So did Optrion.

Megatron's face was unreadable. His hands kept opening and closing. His only response was a jerk of the head that could have been anything from agreement to an apoplectic twitch.

 

* * *

 

“It would appear that your efforts to get the refugees to cooperate have finally met with success.” Ravage's smooth sarcasm drifted through the room. In the darkness, he was invisible save for a pair of yellow optics, hovering above ground level. Even those were there purely as a point of reference for a privileged onlooker.

Shuttering his optics, Megatron ignored his lieutenant's needling. His body stung with his repair systems' efforts to heal him. Even boosted at Ratchet's insistence, it was taking them time to fully expel the shrapnel from the Simfur battle. Battle! As if it could be called that. Folly more like. Inanity. Pieces of Ci-626 worked their way free of his injuries and every one was a silent judgement against him.

“You must be very proud.”

He opened his eyes. Ravage's optics hovered in the air above him. The quad must have leapt up on to the recharge slab and was peering over him.

Anyone else, Megatron would have swatted away without a second thought. “What are you doing?” He pushed himself into a sitting position.

Soundlessly, Ravage drew back, settling on the other end of the slab. “Even after all this time, I don't always know what you are thinking. I cannot understand every one of your reactions. For example: you seem more angry than pleased at this cross-city protest. Aren't you happy to see them cooperating against the Council's idiocy?”

Another sliver of Tarnian metal fell from Megatron's chest, clinking as it bounced off his leg. The sound rung in his receptors far longer than it should have. “For how long?” he growled.

Ravage, unusually, did not reply. He waited, either expecting more or insisting upon it.

“How long until I am ordered to move the protest by force? Or have to for simple practical reasons? It won't _achieve_ anything! It's a display of solidarity with no meaning! Why aren't they helping with the injured or the building work, turning this new-found common ground to some use? Sitting there, shouting, singing – it's pointless!”

A disturbance in the air told him that Ravage was flicking his tail side-to-side. “Are you angry about that?” _Swish, swish._ “Or are you angry because _they_ are making a show of defying the High Council when you did not?”

Static hissed through Megatron's mouth. “The force in Simfur had to be stopped! They would have destroyed their people's future, not saved it!”

 _Swish_ went Ravage’s tail. “Agreed. But have you raised one word of protest against the annexing of the mining colonies? Against treating Vos and Tarn's miners in the same way as their rogue soldiers?”

“If you were _anyone_ else –”

“ _Have_ _you_?” he snarled, “Or have you just gone along with it, _prepared for it_ with the same blind dedication as your pet Iaconian?”

“I am a soldier!” Megatron nearly shook with the effort of keeping his hands under control. “I have my orders and I will carry them out whether they fit with your personal opinions or not!”

Ravage's voice sunk low and harsh and it was as though it were coming from the darkness all around. “I am not talking about _my_ opinions. I am talking about _yours_.”

The optics grew bigger, coming closer as Megatron reeled from the impact of the words. “Tell me you agree with what is happening. Tell me that in the deepest parts of your spark, you think the Council is doing the right thing.”

His jaw would not move. No matter how much he wanted to speak, the magnitude of the lie he would have to tell fixed his mouth shut.

“You can’t. Because you _don’t_. You never could. Because you see what they never will: how this grasping and political division is weakening us all. Look at you! Our mightiest warrior turned upon those who should by rights be at his side. Tell me this is wrong. Tell me I am mistaken and I will say no more. But if I am not, if you are who I _know_ you are, you cannot let this stand. You cannot just accept this.”

They were not just Ravage’s eyes any more. They were the eyes in the faces of every dead Tarnian soldier, of every imprisoned rioter, of every miserable refugee, all gazing imploringly at Megatron, expecting some kind of miracle.

He lay back down with a groan of frustration and strained joints. “I am tired,” he announced, “I am angry and I am damaged. I am not going to be able to wave my hand and change the world tonight.”

Turned to golden slits, Ravage’s optics appeared once more in his line of sight. “What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow I will deal with the problems that are right in front of me. After _that_ . . . we shall see.”


	12. Rage Against the Machine

“ **The Kalis Concession”**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

“I'm starting to take it back,” someone said immediately behind Optrion. He turned and looked up. Cashcoui's face was tight yet perhaps not quite as despondent as when they had last met. The blue flyer stood a little bit more easily too, better adjusted to the loss of his wings. He was carrying a couple of energon cubes under his arm, pale pink liquid sloshing about inside.

“Maybe it's not so crazy that we'd work with the Tarnians to get some fuel.”

Optrion smiled. “It's good to hear you say that.”

“I'll bet. Must make your life easier, all of us getting along.”

“You'd go that far?”

“Maybe we just tolerate each other. It's . . .” Looking at the people milling around the square, he shrugged. “You were right. We're all feeling the same things. You see it most with the miners, when they come back. They can't take it in. Doesn't matter if they're Vosian or Tarnian . . . it's just too much. And having to get our fuel together means we have to see that every day. Guess your commander's pretty clever after all, huh?”

“We like to think so.”

“Hope the Council thinks so too.”

Strictly speaking Megatron's trip to Iacon should have been need-to-know military information. Perhaps luckily, the news had spread across the entire Concession within roughly the first deca-cycle of the order being received. Everywhere Optrion had visited that morning, people had been humming with talk of how _The Commander_ was going to be appearing before the Prime's Council to give a report on his progress. The boost in morale was palpable.

Five quartex since the Simfur uprising and Megatron’s war against the refugees’ dire circumstances was seeing victory after victory. His first major strategic success – using the Primal authority granted by the Supreme Commanders to seize salvage from the less-obliterated sections of the two cities – had provided the raw materials necessary to turn the Concession from a ramshackle collection of twisted buildings into a reasonable approximation of a functional town, albeit one that consisted chiefly of ramshackle buildings heavily reinforced with massive chunks of scrap metal. Rather than tasking his troops or the Civic Guard to retrieve those materials, Megatron had instead turned to the returned miners and the more intact refugees, creating dedicated scavenger teams to scour the ruins for usable wreckage. The groups were not mixed but he did insist that Tarnians were regularly sent to Vos and Vosiasns to Tarn. They were to be forced to see the devastation on both sides.

More resources were secured from the allotment of fuel and equipment for the Vos and Tarn Civic Guard bases, which continued to be delivered despite the fact they were now shrapnel and slag If anyone up in Iacon was questioning that particular administrative oversight, Optrion suspected that they were being delicately deflected or else finding their queries getting lost. Diatrion had mentioned seeing the Magnus pointedly ignore a crate of Tarn-marked technology blocks being taken from his shuttle during his last inspection.

Then some of the Tarnian miners staged a kind of escape attempt by drilling through to the sub-surface and inadvertently connected the Concession to a network of passages extending under the surrounding wasteland. A lot of them were too tangled to use but the rest Megatron ordered converted into more living space and assigned to whoever could fit inside. He laughed, saying he owed those miners a round of high-grade if they survived in the ruins. The larger tunnels became infirmaries, much cleaner and better protected from the elements than the temporary above-ground ones could ever hope to be. Ratchet actually cracked a smile as he took patient after patient off the critical list.

All across the camp tensions were settling down, eased both by the improved conditions and the self-policing Megatron encouraged in the refugees he felt could be trusted with the task. Like Cashcoui said, people were tolerating each other. There were still fights springing from simmering resentment yet for every one of those, there seemed to be an act of cross-city cooperation. Tarnians would help fix up Vosian dwellings. Vosians would carry supplies to immobile Tarnians. Not a perfect peace, not a true brotherhood. But a kind of accord. The start of something more, if they were lucky.

And now Megatron was going to Iacon to speak before the Council itself. The mech who had driven so much of the improvement through sheer force of will was going to face the body that so many of those in his care believed was stealing what little they had left. Given everything he had achieved for them so far, the general mood of optimism was understandable.

“How are your friends?” Optrion asked, changing the subject.

“They're all right.” Cashcoui shrugged again, setting the fuel rolling in the cubes. “Not enough energy to fly but they could if they had it. You patched them up really good.”

“You're the one who protected them. You probably did more to save them than I did.”

“Yeah.” He reached around behind his back, touching the stumps of his wings. “I'm a star.” Whipping his fingers away again, he shuffled his feet. “I should get back to them. They'll be wondering where I've got to. See you around, I guess.”

“Not for a while. I'm going to Iacon as well.”

“S'at right?” The big flyer pondered this for a nano-cycle. “Then you tell your commander to give 'em a kick up the tailpipe for me.”

Chuckling, Optrion spread his hands. “I don't think he needs me to tell him that.”

 

* * *

**Defence Directorate Command** **Platform**

“ **The Kalis Concession”**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

“Coordinate with Cerrebos on getting the next batch of miners set up in block East-Four. They'll have to be held there until space has been freed up for them somewhere and he's the best mech for cooling down any hot-heads who have a problem with that.” Megatron stalked around the war-room, maps and lists spinning around him in frenzied constellations. “And if Recovery Team Five comes back with any more damned sculptures, pull them off rotation permanently. We need building material, not art. Soft metals are of no use!”

“Team Four managed to drag in half a cruiser hull this morning.” Jaantanon was standing close to the middle of the chamber, watching his co-commander's restless pacing with some amusement. Ravage had observed that to be his style: stand still and listen while others did the rushing about. “The engineers are trying to decide whether to break it up or just tip it on its end and use it as a hangar.”

Flicking this information away as if it was an irritating scraplet, Megatron summoned up a grid model of the tunnels. “I want to expand the main hallway to the north. We know one of the half-sunk structures there is mostly open space. If we can get into it, it can act as another distribution hub. And you –” He waved at one of the attendant White-and-Blues. “– get one of your investigators to look at the latest packages of aid from Nova Cronum. According to this, the oil's not lasting as long as it should. If Cronum didn't send us a bad batch, someone might have interfered with it on route. And just because there are less journalists flocking around doesn't mean the air patrols can slack off – get them to tighten up their patterns!”

“Megatron." Finally making a move, Jaantanon crossed to step into the bigger mech's path. “It's not going to all fall apart the moment you're over the horizon. I've been handling half the day-to-day running just as long as you have. I think I can manage a few days taking the full load.”

Dubiousness showed on Megatron's face. He looked the heli-mech up and down before hissing. “I suppose I am a little . . . concerned about what could happen while I'm away.”

“If you don't mind a bit of advice, you should maybe concentrate more on what you're going to be doing while you are.”

“I . . . suppose you are right.” Taking one last look at the orbiting displays, he shut them off with a firm clap of his hands. “I have three deca-cycles before the transport leaves. Is there anything you need before I leave?”

Jaantanon cast about, trying to locate someone among the mechs on watch. “I'm tempted to ask for the services of your lieutenant.” He grinned as Ravage stirred from his position in the corner, allowing the field commander to spy him. “He seems to be the next best thing to actually being everywhere at once. But no. Only I suppose that you hurry back once the Council is done with you.”

To Ravage's considerable surprise, Megatron gripped Jaantanon's forearm in a gesture of solidarity and trust. “I will return just as soon as _I_ am done with _them_.”

 

* * *

**The Decagon**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

It was the first time Optrion had set wheel in the Decagon. Iacon's military control hub loomed amid the ancient architecture, an impenetrable utilitarian block with a domed roof. Alone among all the towers of the city it lacked any consideration for artistry. Quiet contemplation and appreciation for the vast, complex wonder of Primus' work stopped short of the building, giving way sharply to hardened walls and the brusque practicalities of warfare. In times past, it was known as the True Fortress, the Goldmount, a castle within a castle. No one really knew how old it was. Certainly as old as the Celestial Temple, maybe older. All records agreed that it had existed before the mighty Walls were even a notion. Some argued that it might even have been the real reason that Iacon had been built where it had.

When he had been considering a career as an archivist, Optrion's circuits were fired by the thought of uncovering some of the history buried beneath successive generations' enhancements. It had been a dream and not a very likely one. Only military personnel possessed the security clearance necessary to access the monolith; there was no way a junior archivist-in-training could ever have hoped to get near the place.

Ironic that now he was finally rolling off a shuttle into the Decagon's cavernous landing bay, ancient mysteries were the furthest thing from his mind.

The journey from the Concession had been far too slow. Megatron's brooding silence filled the transport as thickly as Dromedonian swamp fog. Since the only other occupant was Ravage, Optrion had been forced to sit quietly in vehicle mode and find his own entertainment. After exhausting all the data tracks that could possibly be of the slightest relevance to the impeding Council session, he moved on to flipping through the news-feeds. Information about the Concession was reassuringly prominent. Whatever else, the plight of the displaced was getting its fair share of coverage.

He also kept himself occupied by wondering why Megatron had brought him along. Not for his unique insights, surely – any one of the lieutenant commanders in either battalion could have told the same kinds of stories. Backup? This was a trip to Iacon, not a sortie into enemy territory. Being called before the Council was important but it did not require fire support. Only as they passed into the Decagon's air control region did the Field Commander stir and beam Optrion a long list of detailed questions on protocol in the Celestial Temple and the surrounding precincts.

Of course. It was not fire support Megatron needed. It was local intelligence.

The landing bay was exceptionally quiet. Theirs was the only shuttle there and the sounds of his transformation echoed across a pristine runway, free of the usual clutter and chaos. A single cart of fuel canisters hurried across to the giant flyer. Optrion and Megatron were simply channelled towards the far end, markings flickering on to guide them across the shining floor.

Blast doors heaved apart to allow them access into the building proper. After a long hallway studded with security scanners, they emerged on to a spiralling ramp threading up through a great circular shaft. It must have run from the bottom of the Decagon right to the top, built to give rapid access to all levels, and was nominally more populated – a few cars and a couple of battle vehicles passed them as they ascended.

Eight levels up from the landing bay, the path indicators directed them out of the shaft and into a large antechamber before ending abruptly with a stop sign. They transformed, Ravage springing from his perch next to Megatron's main turret. Optrion looked around, examining the muted decoration. The standards of different battalions were etched into the walls, a mix of the currently active and the long-defunct. Accolades were picked out in fine script threaded through the designs: the greater the honours and victories, the more thoroughly inscribed the standard. Pride surged in his systems to see their battalion's symbol exceeding any dozen of the rest.

“So . . .” Ravage's head swept side to side, taking it all in as well. “Are we to wait here, admiring past glories until tomorrow?”

He got his answer when a door between the emblems of the First Homeworld and Third Exploratory Battalions opened and Supreme Commander Viktoleo stepped out.

Acknowledging their salutes, the sleek black and gold mech gestured to the room behind him. “Megatron, if you would please join me. Lieutenant Commander, Lieutenant – you may report to the fuelling station on level twenty. I shouldn't keep your superior long.”

Which seemed a far more ominous statement than the Supreme Commander's mild tone should have implied.

 

* * *

 

Viktoleo's office was pleasingly free of distracting ornamentation. It was reassuring to know that he did not share the Iaconian obsession with turning every available surface into a statement of religious fervour. That need to bludgeon history and faith into everyone brought out tendencies in Megatron that were probably down to an early life in Tarn's climate of aggressive rationality. Primus and the Prime had their places – just not as objects of day-to-day adulation.

In place of any of the usual iconography, there was a single dais and a ring of displays keyed into all the major Defence Directorate channels. Feeds from the Concession were prominent. Viktoleo stepped among them, taking a long look out at the world before speaking. “It is with not a little regret that I look back on your promotion and recall that I cautioned against a perceived inflexibility in your character. Evidently, you are far more adaptable than I gave you credit for at the time.”

“Thank you.” Megatron clamped his mouth shut the instant the response was out. The Supreme Commander's opinion had changed and that was the important thing.

“I am extremely impressed by your efforts to encourage cooperation between the refugees. I'm very pleased to see our trust in you was not misplaced.”

“I hope the High Council is equally impressed.” He drew back his shoulders. “Most of what I have done has been in spite of their efforts, not because of it.”

Horns dropping ever so slightly, Viktoleo put his hands on his hips. “Hmm. The Council has its own priorities. In managing those, it is unfortunately inevitable that they may conflict with ours.”

“Ensuring Cybertron's strength and stability is as much their job as it is ours. To let hundreds of mechs who could work for the good of all starve because one state is greedy for more fuel is . . . it is wrong.”

“Would you say the same if Nova Cronum had been destroyed? Or Polyhex?”

“It wouldn't have mattered! It would still be the same problem.”

“Even though you are Tarnian? Don't you have a personal stake in what has happened?”

“I am Defence Directorate!” Megatron insisted, infuriated that the Supreme Commander could even raise the suggestion, “My loyalty is to Cybertron, not some factional identity!”

“And I commend you for that.” Viktoleo raised a placating hand. “What I would ask you to remember is that the Council deals with such factionalism every day. They are used to viewing the world as a collection of city-states that they must wrangle into grudging unity, not the single whole that you and I are trained to defend. You are – forgive me – conspicuously Tarnian. You may wish to bear that in mind when you address them.”

So that was what this private meeting was about. Instructions on how to deal with the Council tactfully. “I'm grateful for the advice.”

“I've found in the past that it pays to consider the way in which the Council approaches problems when dealing with them. While we ultimately take our lead from their rulings, we do not see the world in quite the same way. I would caution against expecting them to change their will on mass as a result of what you say tomorrow. Consider yourself to be passing ammunition to those among them who are already sympathetic so that they might do the work of swaying the majority. It could win us the campaign even if it does not secure a quick victory.”

Megatron's face twisted. “Delays like that are costly.”

“True. So are rushed decisions. It is all about balancing the outcomes in the end.”

“What of the Prime?”

The Supreme Commander tilted his head in confusion. “What of him?”

“It is _his_ Council, isn't it? And he's already intervened to resolve one crisis. He is the highest authority on the planet! If he is given the facts –”

“I would not count on the Prime's intercession to make all our problems go away,” Viktoleo interrupted smoothly, “The Prime does not consider it his place to interfere with the Council's workings. He maintains order and sees that things are done legitimately. Beyond that, he restrains his power. As well he might. Cybertron is one world of many parts. That has to be respected. The Prime is an ideal we can aspire to, not a directing influence.”

What kind of ideal would it be to stand back and do nothing while Cybertron as a whole suffered, Megatron wondered. He kept the question to himself. “I understand,” he said, resolving to make sure that the Prime heard clearly every terrible detail of the results of the Council's 'workings'. And how it all might be resolved at a stroke.

“Is there any more advice you can give me, sir?” he asked.

“A favourable visual impression is always useful so I'd polish your armour. Oh, and it will be a closed session so your adjutants will have to wait outside unless called. Did you intend to ask either of them to present any details separate or in support of your report?”

“It would not be necessary. Do you think it would help if they did?”

“Potentially. Ultimately, it will be the Council's decision as to whether they wish to seek corroboration. The Magnus will be giving a report as well and I will myself be addressing them on the progress of reclaiming the mining colonies.”

Megatron grunted. “That might be all the supporting evidence I need.”

“Quite. In any case, they shall not want for authoritative persons telling them the outcomes of their decisions.”

Viktoleo stepped down from the dais, armour plates flaring out and in again. “In many ways I have envied you the authority we gave you. You have the clarity of responding in the moment to what is directly before you while the rest of us are jammed on the minutia of the bigger picture.”

“I can't do my job properly if those minutia are not resolved.”

He smiled ruefully. “Too true. Oh, one last thing. I should warn you – these sessions can become a little protracted. You should be prepared for a long day.” Pausing briefly, he added, “Maybe even days.”

 

* * *

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

After the third break in Council proceedings, Optrion made some feeble excuse and escaped the waiting room with all due speed.

It was even worse than the shuttle. Megatron's mounting annoyance at being kept standing outside was almost a palpable thing, seeping out from every tensed joint in his body. Ravage was no help of course and actually seemed to have shut himself down quite early on. He lurked in the corner, curled up, only the occasional flick of his tail suggesting he was still online. Every time the Council trooped in and out again, the atmosphere grew more oppressive until it was a choice between powering down like Ravage or making a run for it, and Optrion's body ached for motion.

Realistically, he could not go far. Movement within the Temple was strictly monitored and besides, the Council could reconvene at any moment. But still: it was the Celestial Temple, the centre of Cybertronian culture for millions of stellar-cycles and as grave as the circumstances were and as much as he could not admit it within Megatron's hearing, Optrion felt a thrill to be walking its hallways.

All during his time working for the archivists, he had longed to get even a glimpse inside the upper reaches of the Temple and now here he was. It was like the Decagon all over again only more so. Unlike the fortress, the Temple had not been constantly upgraded and history reverberated through the place thicker than Megatron's temper. On just the one level, in a few hallways, he could see some of the oldest totality maps on the planet, ancient shrines to even more ancient beings, even a recording of first generation linguistic coding, one of the very roots of communication. A younger version of himself would have been over-heating with glee at being allowed inside such a treasure trove.

While he would admit to being awed by it all, his current self was not nearly so unquestioningly enthusiastic. With every religious artefact he encountered, his memory would trip back to the Circuit-Master who led protoforms to the Concession and its apparent lack of awareness of the harm caused by birthing more in the midst of all that destruction. At the time, he had excused that as age and inflexibility yet the more he thought about it, the less it could be excused by anything. How much had that insistence that life must continually create life contributed to the crisis and the war in the fist place? How much pressure did it place on every city-state struggling to handle an ever-growing population? Somewhere along the line, the ideals behind the religious observances seemed to have faltered in the face of reality.

Quite by accident while wandering down side passages away from the main chambers Optrion emerged out on to a mid-sized balcony overlooking the city. Iacon stretched out beneath him, a crowded wheel of spires bounded by a great golden arc. There were the information exchanges, the great powerhouses of the archives. The canals, cutting between the Towers of Stars and the pyramid that housed the Academy of Advanced Sciences. All the familiar landmarks. Yet what struck him most, what he had never appreciated while driving those venerable expressways, much less looking up from the low-grade living districts beyond the Walls, was how vast a shadow the Temple cast over the city. A logical enough fact of having a gigantic tower in the middle but the scale of it was all the clearer when seen from above.

“I suppose I should have known someone would find my favourite spot eventually. I'm rather surprised that it was you.”

Startled, Optrion looked to his side and found Emirate Xaaron sitting with his back to the Temple, a small single-function hologram projector in his hand. Incongruously enough, it was playing a looped manifesto for 'Fuel For All'.

“Sir! Forgive me if this area is off limits, I'm very sorry to have intruded –”

“Not at all.” The Emirate waved his concerns airily aside. “To the best of my knowledge, this is part of the Temple commons, just a part few people bother with. There are much more impressive vantage points to be found elsewhere.” He indicated the jutting buttresses that flanked the balcony and the rear-facing sides of the statues they supported. Not a very artistically satisfying part of the view, Optrion supposed.

Xaaron indicated the spot next to him on the low bench. “Please, join me. We are, after all, both waiting for the same thing.”

Optrion did as he was bid, feeling extremely self-conscious. “I still don't want to intrude.”

“And I don't mind, so I think I win. Besides, if I try to chase you away, you might broadcast that you caught me viewing subversive propaganda.” Hefting the projector, Xaaron grinned. “That was a joke, Lieutenant Commander.”

“Yes, Emirate,” Optrion agreed, doing his best to clear the scandalised expression from his face, “Ah . . . would it be inappropriate to ask _why_ you are viewing it?”

“I cannot say that I mind either way. Curiosity and interest. I got tired of hearing the clichés and assumptions so I decided to go to the source. The content is powerful stuff. We really are a tremendously wasteful species in many respects. It's not at all good for us.”

“I . . . I don't think I've ever looked at it quite like that before.”

“Well, you're a . . . let me see, where was it . . . 'a guzzling lackey, consuming the resources that rightly belong to the people in order to oppress them on behalf of a corrupt elite.'”

Optrion frowned. “Has anyone told the author of this tract that military-grade mechs are on average three times as fuel-efficient as the average civilian?”

“Not knowing anything about the author, I couldn't say. Although, it has to be admitted that the fuel saved by that efficiency is then usually directed to powering weaponry and spacecraft rather than to the public good.”

“Surely planetary defence _is_ to the public good?”

Xaaron put his head back, as if looking at a point beyond the sky. “Currently, there are seven off-world battalions deployed to secure or guard resources on alien worlds, to engage alien cultures or species classified as hostile because of conflict over those resources, or to search for more resources to exploit.”

“I suppose your author –” Optrion pointed at the projector. “I suppose they would say that we are using those resources primarily to drive that kind of activity, or that the results were being hoarded.”

“They might very well do so, yes. But that is not my point. My point is that while we have the technology to avoid any kind of conflict and to harvest forms of fuel no one else could hope to, we chose a path that must necessarily cause us to harm the universe around us.”

Battlefields on fifty different worlds flashed into Optrion's mind. He saw dead off-worlders by the hundred, all those alien troops he had faced in combat. Xaaron looked down and continued, “So is the Defence Directorate being used in our defence? Or in a way that is just going to leave us facing a hostile universe against which we will be required to defend ourselves?”

“Do we really have the technology _not_ to seek off-world fuel? I think I see what you are saying, Emirate, but . . . does the choice really exist?”

“We have the ability to solve the problem, in one way or another. I believe so, anyway. If they thought about it, many governments might reach the same conclusion.”

“I . . . just before I came out here, I was thinking about what happened with the protoforms in the Concession.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Is that one of the ways you mean?”

“Stopping the creation of protoforms or at least reducing it? Certainly. _How_ that is done would be a very complicated decision of course.”

“Has anyone ever stopped and thought about it before? What that is doing to us?”

“They have. And been called heretics because of it. Or they have allowed tradition to sway them.”

“Just like harvesting other worlds?”

Head swinging around, Xaaron regarded Optrion appraisingly. “Interesting, is it not? How little we question. I've come to think of it as a kind of normalisation. Here's another one: why do dead-ends exist? When I was young – back at the start of time, heh – they were unheard of. Sections of cities abandoned as no longer workable, labourers cast aside because they were obsolete? Impossible! No one stayed in one role for the rest of their lives, not if they were anywhere other than a Pit like Tarn. If you were old, you had advanced your way up and up. I had a friend, a feme who they said was old enough to remember the last star Cybertron orbited, if you can imagine that – she'd done everything, been everything. She was an embodiment of progression and change, an ideal to aspire towards. Now though, it has become accepted that there is not room for everyone to move on, that some roles are full and so there are some people who cannot advance. Therefore, there must be people who keep doing one assigned task until they are incapable of doing it any longer. And since there must be a place for them to go when they are too broken-down to continue, we have dead-ends.”

“But surely . . . surely that implies an acceptance of dead-ends. That doesn't exist – they're shunned.”

“Of course. Who wants _that_ to be their fate? That too gets folded into constructed 'normal'. 'If you don't work hard enough, you will be cast aside and end up in the dead-end and the dead-end exists because some people do not work hard enough.' It's just the way the world works. 'Protoforms must always be birthed.' 'We need more resources because people keep being born.' Again, it's the way the world works. And it's very easy to never stop and think, _why_? Or _is there a better way of doing this_? For all their faults, at least Fuel For All recognise that as a question they can and should be asking.”

And perhaps if that question had been asked before Tarn and Vos got to the point of opening fire on one another, a tragedy could have been avoided. And perhaps if it went unasked, if all the questions now flooding Optrion's processors, went unasked, there would be more tragedies and more suffering. The thought was horrifying and horrifyingly plausible.

“Is there a better way of . . . doing it all? Of living as a world?”

“I hope so. I'm not sure what it is yet,” Xaaron admitted, “although I do know how we would get there.”

“How?”

“How else? Transformation. We have to stop accepting the way things are and start changing them instead. Radically if necessary. We cannot be afraid of that part. If making things better requires us to step back from the the edifices of the past and shove them over then that is exactly what we have to do.”

Optrion stared at him. “Ah, is that official Nova Cronum government policy, sir?”

He grinned again. “It might have become so if I had not been elected to the post of Emirate.”

A soft chime resounded through the Temple. Immediately, Xaaron collapsed his holo-projector and returned it to a wrist compartment. “That would be our cue to return to the fray. Well, my cue to do so. Your cue to return to sitting around doing nothing. Thank you for indulging me in conversation. It has been most illuminating.”

“Not at all sir, thank _you_ ,” Optrion said, wondering what the Emirate could possibly mean when he had been doing all the talking.

As they went inside, Optrion glanced back over the city. The Temple's shadow seemed, if anything, to have gotten even bigger.

 

* * *

**Council Chamber**

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

Megatron's footfalls sounded thunderous in the grand, echo-filled hall. He restrained himself to an even marching speed, despite the urge to storm his way into the half-circle of Emirates. Nearly a whole day wasted, waiting on their summons! He had not even been able to maintain a live connection back to his troops in the Kalis Concession thanks to the strict limitations on signals within the Temple precincts. Apparently it was important to keep the channels clear for communications to and from the governments represented in the Council, a rule that surely stemmed from a far more primitive age when the technology to do so was limited. Then again, given the age of the place, perhaps they were still reliant on that self-same backwards technology.

The Emirates arrayed before him were a largely decrepit bunch, perfectly suited to their surroundings. Their gold livery merged them with the chamber itself until they all became a single mass entity, the many-formed body of government staring dumbly up at him as he approached. Behind them, the Prime sat impassively on his throne, leaning slightly forward, his weight braced upon his spear. His bright white optics blazed a line across the room, far above everyone else's heads.

The door slammed shut. Megatron reached the point equal distance from all of the Emirates. He stopped, stood and waited.

One of them dragged himself to his feet. “Field Commander Mega Mech Tron. On behalf of this Council, I wish to extend our gratitude for your ongoing efforts in the Qosho region. Your fortitude and commitment have impressed us all.”

Megatron nodded in curt acknowledgement.

The Emirate, who bore the insignia of Iacon, was taken aback that this was the sum total of his response but rallied quickly. “We would request of you an account, in your own words, of what has transpired since the tragic conflict that devastated so much of that region. Please be as thorough as possible. You have access to the chamber's projection and data retrieval functions for the purpose of illustration.” An interface extended from the floor at the Iaconian's gesture. “Please begin at your convenience.”

Placing his hand flat on the interface, Megatron did as he was told.

He started with the missiles rising from Vos and ended with the latest difficulties in spreading a meagre fuel supply among an increasing number of the dispossessed. He spared the Council not a single detail. Every blow landed against a fellow Cybertronian warrior, every injury worsened by radioactive dust, every advantage snatched away by thoughtless greed – it took him nearly ten deca-cycles to lay it all before them. They listened attentively, without interrupting. He was prepared for a constant barrage of inane questions only to find it did not come. As he reached the end, he was almost starting to believe that they really were comprehending it all, that they were at last seeing past their petty concerns and appreciating what was happening to the world.

The Iaconian Emirate stood again. “Thank you, Field Commander. That was admirably thorough. Unless there is anything more you wish to add, I will open the floor for questions.” He waited a micro-cycle and sat down.

An avir with incandescent markings spoke up immediately. “Commander, you, hm, have made much of the requirements for the safety of the inhabitants of the – hm, so-called – 'Kalis Concession'. However what provision have you made for the safety of those residing outside the camp? What steps are you taking to prevent a grab for territory such as that attempted by the Tarnians during the Simfur Uprising?”

All Megatron could think was how absurd it was that anyone would try to make a joke at such a time. Then he realised that the avir was being serious. “I would think it unlikely that a group of _refugees_ would be capable of such attempts,” he said, fists tightly clenched, “And if you are worried about the soldiers, I would point out _again_ that in disarming them, we have often been forced to inflict _further injuries upon them_. No one in that camp is in any fit state to be a threat to _international security_.”

“That is all very well,” responded a slender quad three seats along, “But with the increased population of miners extracted from the colonies, surely there comes an increasing level of unrest?”

“The Emirate of Hexima makes a valid point,” put in a stocky mech, “You have already made reference to groups of miners escaping from the camp, Commander. Is that not indicative of a desire to cause trouble?”

“That was _one_ instance and if it was indicative of anything, I would have thought it would be more likely to be a protest against being forcibly evicted from their homes.” Megatron stopped short of pointing out how obvious that was. “Most of them are focusing on surviving and helping their brothers.” Or they slagging well would be by the time he was done with them.”

“Hm. Forgive me. But, hm, does that not just apply to those who have been contained within the camp? You are of course aware that there are many, hm, sightings of people moving among the wreckage of the cities, surely.” The avir made this pronouncement in such a way as implied that he doubted Megatron had any idea about them. “This is gravely concerning.”

“We are continuing to send patrols into the ruins, deeper than we are sending salvage teams, in the hope that more survivors can be recovered. It is not an easy task given the lingering after-effects of the blasts.”

“And all the while some kind of vengeance squad could be hiding in the underground areas, gathering their strength! This is not, hm, good enough!”

“With respect,” said another Emirate – Xaaron, as it turned out – his voice carrying from across the half-circle despite his mild tone, “that seems a little far-fetched. There may be hold-outs still but they are surely not that great a concern.”

“Perhaps not for Nova Cronum! But Prodium is directly south of where Tarn once stood! We, hm, are a prime target!”

“Don't be absurd, Davinrav!” shouted a flyer a couple of seats to the right of the Iaconian Emirate, “Kalis is just about the same distance from both Tarn _and_ Vos and we're not concerned about such scare stories! There soon won't be enough viable fuel in the region to give strength to any resurgent military force.”

And he should know since his people were the ones sucking the place dry, Megatron thought bitterly.

“The Emirate of Kalis raises an important issue regarding fuel,” Xaaron said smoothly, “Megatron, with local reserves no longer accessible, what is your estimation for how far imports will need to be increased in order to sustain the displaced population in the long-term?”

At last, a sensible question. After a moment's consideration, Megatron named the lowest reasonable figure he and Jaantanon had worked out based on the Concession's growing number of inhabitants.

The Council exploded. His optics widened in astonishment as Emirate after Emirate lifted their voice in protest. It was impossible, they cried, completely out of the question. A totally unreasonable request! What was Megatron thinking? Already, too much precious energon was being poured into the camp! He must recalculate immediately!

The Prime's spear crashed thunderously against the chamber floor, silencing the babble of voices. His gaze swept once over the assembly, ensuring order returned. But he did not say anything.

Davinrav did. “Hm! Commander, you must understand that we are all still reeling from the shock of losing the Qosho region distribution network. Many of us, and I include Prodium in this, are stretched to the very limit sustaining our own people. Perhaps, hm, once the mining colonies have resumed production and new flow-lines have been established we will be in a better, hm, position to be charitable.”

“Surely that will take more time than the refugees have,” argued a hexe with turbines slung over her shoulders, “We are extremely uncomfortable with the idea that these people will be left to starve during the interim. This is not the Cybertronian way.”

“Well, Tyrest is welcome to increase its support of those who landed us in this situation in the first place,” snapped Kalis' Emirate, “ _We_ need to focus on the hard work of getting everything up and running again.”

“Hard work aimed at stabilising the lives of all, surely, not just the people of Kalis. Tarn and Vos are no longer part of the Council, no longer even cities, yet their people still live. We cannot abandon them.”

“Uraya concurs with the Tyrestians on this,” said the mech directly across from him, “Kalis has already displayed a disregard for the lives of the refugees that we feel borders on callousness.”

The Iaconian put up his hand. “We are straying into a wider debate, Emirates. As we have Commander Megatron here at hand, perhaps we would be best to ask him for his opinions on how things might be handled if increasing the fuel allowance to the refugees is truly not an option, or not an option immediately. Commander?”

All eyes turned to Megatron, who squared his shoulders and said, “If the fuel is not increased, it will not be _possible_ to support all the Tarnians and Vosians who will be living in the Concession once all the remaining miners have been returned to Cybertron. There will be mass starvation and the largest mechs will be unable to remain functional at all. This is not exaggeration or speculation, this is a matter of _fact_.” He let them absorb that fully before continuing. “If it is absolutely impossible to increase energon supplies then the only possible alternative is to move the refugees somewhere where they will be able to take fuel from local reserves. My recommendation would be that instead of seizing the last remaining Vos or Tarn mining bases, they instead be given over to the survivors as new homes. Resettling them off-world will be a risk to those still healing but if done carefully, it will be a viable solution to the crisis. Besides, fully functional off-world settlements will extend our reach out into the universe. The Vosians and Tarnians could create launch-pads for far more ambitious deep-space projects, ensuring that Cybertron can reach the fuel it requires for millennia to come.”

Silence greeted his suggestion. The Emirates stared at him – and not in admiration or agreement. They looked . . . mostly dumbfounded. As if they could not compute what he had just said. On the other hand, some of them were clearly _amused_. The Emirate of Kalis actually _chuckled_. For a good half-cycle, no one seemed to know what to say.

“That is a most . . . interesting proposal.” This came from a mech prominently displaying the Praxian crest. “However with the best will in the world, it would involve a significant investment of resources for only speculative returns.”

“You honestly expect us to fuel the space-lifting of hundreds of mechs on the off-chance that they could survive on an alien world?” Kalis scoffed, “And then we're supposed to trust them to send us a cut of what they dig up? Their hoarding tendencies landed us in this mess in the first place!”

“It's an, hm, absurd suggestion! We have to maintain control over existing supplies! That is vital!”

“Then give them ships and point them towards worlds that have yet to be colonised!” Megatron looked from one golden figure to the next, searching for anyone with the wit to see the sense in the idea. “There are plenty of planets out there where Cybertronians could thrive! They don't even have to be ones that are especially _rich_ – we're talking about a fraction of the population of a city-state!” No. Nothing. Even Xaaron sat back and kept quiet. “A fraction that will _starve_ if you don't take action!”

Megatron lifted his optics imploringly to the Prime. Surely _he_ could not let the Council dismiss such an obvious solution out of hand. Sentinal's impassive face did not move. His gaze remained steadily fixed on the far wall. He might as well have been deaf and blind to the world around him for all the reaction he showed.

“Thank you for your frank assessment,” the Emirate of Iacon said after an awkward hesitation, “You have certainly given us much to discuss. Does anyone else have any questions they would like to put to the Field Commander?”

Of course there were none. Every face was was against him now, sharp-beaked Prodium, sniggering Kalis, supercilious Praxus and all the rest. Viktoleo's fine words about giving ammunition to allies rang hollowly in Megatron's receptors. The perfect solution and they could only think of how it would cost them in the short term, could only see the immediate threat to their interests – the _threat_ posed by dispossessed soldiers with no guns!

And now Iacon was thanking him yet again for coming before them, thanking him for being ignored and saying how grateful they were that he had come all this way to be dismissed! As though the word of the mech on the ground was just an _opinion_ to be set aside like so much ill-informed gossip while the high and mighty Council got on with making its decisions a thousand hix away in a gilded palace!

They _appreciated_ his time. They would _consider_ everything he had said to them. They would _let him know_ if they needed anything more. They would talk and talk and prattle endlessly behind closed doors while outside in the real world, a new dead-end was being born, vaster than any ever seen before and full of mechs who would never again be able to lend their strength to Cybertron's betterment. They would sit there and let what was left of Vos and Tarn _di_ e.

And all the while, the Prime sat on his golden throne and _did nothing_.


	13. Kirdan Dar

**The Decagon**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

The axe spun across the room, followed closely by the drone that had been wielding it, followed by a significant chunk of the environmental simulation array. Another flurry of blows and three more drones went down, smashed beyond any hope of repair. Metal slammed against metal. Oil spewed from severed connections. Electricity seared the air.

He had set up a complex training environment for himself: looping ramps and interconnected platforms suspended over wicked spikes. It was a mode designed to test tactical thinking under pressure, where one ill-considered manoeuvre could mean disaster. His intention had been to give himself a focus beyond the confines of his tempestuous thoughts. The swarming combat drones and the twisted landscape demanded that all distractions be set aside while he gave them his total concentration. He was going to let his rage burn itself up in out-lying processors while the bulk of his mind was absorbed with winning the game.

That had been the plan. He was not sure exactly when it had fallen apart. He remembered a glancing blow and then – his control was gone. He reverted to basic berserker tactics. And now he was pummelling his way through the drones with no thought or finesse, just the unchecked need to destroy. Hopelessly outmatched drones crumpled before his remorseless fists. He was back in the arena, the scream of the crowd thundering in his audios. He was on Dromedon, ripping shrikebats limb from filthy limb. He was on Parthus, the razor swarm howling around him.

He only realised he was howling back when the last drone stopped struggling in his grip.

“Feel better?” Ravage was sitting atop one of the few parts of the environment that still remained intact. How long he had been there, Megatron could not say.

He drew back his arm and hurled the drone the full length of the training room. “No.”

The quad's tail flicked once and he put his head to the side. “Alas, that all those dumb machines died for nothing.”

Swinging one fist, Megatron dealt a colossal blow to the side of the nearest platform, caving it in. “ENOUGH! I don't want to hear your PIT-DAMNED COMMENTARY this time! I don't want to hear you gloat about how INCISIVE your assessment of the Council has always been, how you can see so much FURTHER than any other mech! For ONCE, spare me your stalking and your sniping and your SLAGGING SARCASM!”

Megatron rounded on him, armour grinding, ventilators thrumming fit to explode. “You think I need you to tell me how USELESS that bunch of DODDERING CRETINS are? You think I need you to spell out for me just how STUPID I was to think that they would take the SLIGHTEST bit of notice of what I WAS TELLING THEM?! Why would they?! They are the Emirates of Cybertron and what am I? Just a lowly soldier who has spent his days PROTECTING THEIR GOLD-PLATED HIDES from all the horrors the universe has to offer! How could I ever match the wisdom they have gained in all their stellar-cycles of SITTING AROUND AND RUSTING?!”

Disgust mingled with the buzzing fury now. He pressed his hands over his eyes, partly so there would be no chance of seeing crimson optics reflected back from the surfaces around him, that mute evidence of his loss of control. Mostly it was just so he did not lash out again. “What is the point of protecting Cybertron from without if they cannot protect it from within?! They carry their greed like a battle standard! They fear those they have abandoned! They're scared of the chaos they didn't act to prevent! How can _they_ be the highest authority on the planet?! How can _he_?”

Ravage did not move. Did not speak. Just kept watching. Megatron's treads jittered, his fingers flexing the moment he took them from his face. Around them, repair units were coming to life and baulking at the task before them.

“You told me before that I am on the wrong battlefield. Today I tried to engage them on _theirs_. And I thought . . . I _believed_ that whatever weakness was infesting the Council, I would at least have one ally. One mech who stood for the same Cybertron that I did. For all your scorn, for all the trappings of _religion_ – Sentinel Prime acted to protect his people! He _ordered us into Vos and Tarn_! He turned on that idiot Circuit-Master! _He walked among the refugees_! He _acted_! He acted like a leader should! WHY DIDN'T HE TODAY?!”

Still, Ravage said nothing. In Megatron's mind, the crowd heckled his naïvety. Shouted that he should show some bearings and face up to reality or get out of the fight.

“How could he just _sit_ there? How could he just sit there among those fools and stay silent while they – argued Cybertron's future away?! He _is_ Cybertron! He is the highest of the high, the Matrix Flame! HOW CAN HE LET THIS IDIOCY STAND?!” Unable to help himself, he seized another of the platforms and ripped it from its mounting, sending it crashing to the ground to crush a gaggle of helpless maintenance drones. This last act of violence finally took some kind of toll on his fevered superstructure and he slumped, exhausted, to one knee. The whine of his ventilators and the jeering of the crowd were one and the same.

All at once, Ravage was right in front of him, face-to-face, so close Megatron could see the scratches around his mouth plates, the tell-tale signs of using his fangs as weapons. He bared them now, silver daggers in Pit-black darkness. “What are you saying? What _exactly_ are you trying to say?”

Megatron stared at him, failing completely to form some kind of response. What  _was_ he trying to say? It suddenly seemed impossible to vocalise. “The Prime  _is_ Cybertron,” he repeated, then stalled, silenced by the gaping void on the other side of that statement.

He jerked back to his feet, as if the very motion would jar words loose from his processors. “The Prime is everything we are, everything I have ever fought for! He is where our future  _comes from_ ! But . . . if he . . . if he doesn't  _protect_ that future –” There was the void again, deeper than ever. For a wild micro-cycle, he wanted to throw himself wide open to Ravage and broadcast everything. How was he supposed to reduce it? How was he supposed to take the breaking of a lifetime's understanding of the way the world worked and express it in mere words?

No matter where on Cybertron you were, no matter who or what you were, the Prime was the one constant. The bringer of sentience, the gift of Primus to its children so that they might forever be born and live and know. That image, that idea – it was everywhere. Eternal. Unquestioned. No one thought of the Prime as a person. Whoever they had been, they were elevated by the Matrix, remade into something –  _more_ . The highest of the high. The ultimate authority. The one who made the future possible. And therefore no matter how bad things got, no matter how much the politicians squabbled, the Prime was always there, the break on their excesses. If things became truly dire, if the future was ever truly in danger, the Prime was there to step in.

Megatron remembered the day he had joined the Defence Directorate, filled with righteousness and the glory of a Cybertron united against its enemies. Had he been alone in feeling in that moment something of what it meant to be Prime? Surely not. Surely that was the point. They took responsibility for the world. They protected it from all threats. They made sure there was a future. That was what it meant to be a soldier. That was what it meant to be a Prime.

Except Vos and Tarn were gone. Their citizens were going to continue to suffer. Cybertron was going to suffer.  _And the Prime –_

“What is the point of a Prime who does not act?”

The words finally came in a quiet snarl. As soon as they were uttered, he wanted to look away. To be spared Ravage's reaction to a blatant betrayal of every oath they had ever sworn. But he had not flinched from seeing loyal people burn for their beliefs and he would not give in to cowardice now. So he watched as Ravage slumped, neck dropping between his shoulders. There it was then. The best soldier Megatron knew, reacting to him with utter disappointment.

Ravage looked up. And Megatron's fuel pumps nearly stalled at the expression of relief on the quad's face. Of faith, not broken, but rewarded. For one long moment, Ravage shuttered his optics, mouth moving in soundless gratitude. Then he pulled himself straighter, regaining something of his usual poise.

“Come with me,” he said, “There is something you need to see.”

 

* * *

**Council Chamber**

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

Listening to Tomaandi wail about the need to secure a (Praxian) hold on a particularly promising planet in the Unbrik system, Xaaron updated his tally of standard arguments for the present session. A full day into the debate and the patterns were starting to become clear. As he had suspected, the spread of talking points was deviating from the norm – Megatron's account had rattled the Council more than they would like to admit.

Among the problems facing those cities eager to quickly take the rest of the left-over Vos/Tarn assets, the most prominent was surely that ever since the Prime had paid his impromptu visit to the Kalis Concession the optics of the news-feeds had been fixed upon it. Popular sympathy responded well to endorsements that the refugees remained within the light of the Allspark, regardless of their legal status, and there were many governments that could not afford to ignore what popular sympathy said. Those that could, meanwhile, or those whose citizens put their fuel-tanks above those of strangers, were contending with the need to cooperate in order to make a feasible grab for the spoils. Few indeed where the cities with the industrial might to fill the gap. In that respect, as with military strength, Vos and Tarn had been world-leaders. Polyhex could and was making its presence felt yet it was also putting forward tentative motions about better support for the displaced and even trying to send envoys into the Concession to talk with the dispossessed miners. A city of prospectors and engineers recognised the value of expert knowledge.

The same appreciation was starting to dawn on others. Stanix in particular had responded well to Megatron's suggestion that cooperation with the remaining unclaimed colonies might be better than eviction. Their Emirate was even now on her feet, gesturing emphatically as she argued with Davinrav about how trustworthy the average Vosian would be after the carnage wrought on their home. Ironically enough, the very fears that drove Prodium to argue against extending a hand to the refugees were leading other states to at least consider upping the official aid going to them. Better to have a grateful group of dependants than the vengeance-obsessed commandos that Davinrav imagined lurked in the ruins.

All the same, Kalis and Praxus were immovable. All fuel was to be seized for the greater whole and since the Prime's expulsion order, neither Vos nor Tarn were a part of that. Many states gravitated to them, not quite endorsing the hard line but feeling the danger that came with dependency. Some though were becoming unsettled by the avaricious bent to it all. What, they were thinking, might happen if all those tempting fuel concerns ended up divided between Praxian or Kalisian hands? Stinging from the loss of the Qosho distribution pipelines, they were finding the possibility of history repeating itself most daunting.

A very precarious situation all around, then. Rising to refute Tomaandi's assertion that the refugees really could not possibly need _that much_ fuel, Xaaron reflected that in that precariousness lay hope. Whether he knew it or not, Megatron had done Cybertron a great service with his bluntness and 'wild' suggestions. He had disturbed the settled order of things, scaring a few in the right direction and giving them all something to think about. In doing so, he had created enough useful openings that it was hard to chose which way to go first.

Xaaron made a note to thank him personally as soon as the session was ended and dived into an impassioned speech about the common right to sufficient energon.

 

* * *

**Gemja Plains**

**Tidora Region**

**Cybertron**

 

The hired skimmer carried them beyond the golden walls of Iacon and out across the wastes that parted Tidora from Solaria. The city sank to a bump on the horizon and far to the west, the lights of Hexima were a haze of colour at the foot of the midnight sky. What settlements existed between the two were scattered and lonely, the survivors of whatever ancient machinations that had left so much of the Gemja Plains unworkable. It was a peculiarly stubborn landscape, at odds with the seats of Primes and scientific powerhouses alike. From near-orbit, the emptiness was a relatively small blotch. From the ground, it seemed endless.

Ravage landed them at a point that, as far as Megatron could tell, was no less desolate than the rest. He jumped down after his lieutenant and looked around for anything that might be the objective of their journey. There was nothing but uneven terrain in all directions.

“Where are we going?” he asked, honestly curious. He respected Ravage enough to believe that they were there for some reason, trusted him when he said it was something Megatron _needed_ to see. How could he not, after all that had been said?

Ravage was already prowling away up a slight rise. “To where I was born.”

Megatron strode after him, frowning. “What are you talking about? Temla Corvis is mega-hix from here!”

“Yes. It is.”

Which was no answer and all that Ravage appeared inclined to give.

They walked for a good few deca-cycles, every now and then making an apparently random change of direction. Megatron's anger oscillated beneath his growing confusion, threatening to burst free one moment only to ebb away the next. The monotony of their surroundings, the tap of Ravage's claws – they drained his body of its need to lash out. It was almost soothing.

The fissure was near invisible until they were right on top of it. A dark gash in the ground, it curved and sloped sharply down, disappearing into an irregularity where the surface plates did not quite mesh properly. The edges were heavily weathered, any sharpness eroded away. Ravage paused at the lip, head cocked, listening.

Megatron stared first at him then into the fissure. “Are we going in there,?”

Ravage flashed him a grin and began down the slope.

After a few paces, the tunnel closed over their heads. There was no light save that coming through the entrance behind them and that quickly faded. From what Megatron could tell, the passage was natural in origin and had later been widened and reinforced artificially. Rough arches stood at near regular intervals, covered in markings that on closer inspection turned out to be deep scratches, as might have been made by someone with a set of very sharp claws. The patterns – arrays of lines and curves – meant nothing to him. Low-level heat pulsed behind them, flowing through the arches and the walls. Conduits and energon lines threading beneath the surface. So not such a drained wasteland after all.

He could no longer see Ravage. In the darkness, the quad’s natural stealth turned him invisible. Megatron was following the sound of his footsteps, nothing more. Not a problem as long as there was only one way to go, he supposed.

“What is my name?” The tunnel distorted Ravage’s voice, turning it into an endless hollow rasp.

“Rahshiv. Rah Quad Shiv Temla Corvis! What is this, Ravage? Where are you taking me?”

“Not to Temla Corvis, obviously.” He laughed and the sound was terrible.

“Don't play the fool with me! You don't have the right!”

“Tell me what you know about Birthing Wells.”

Megatron growled, the noise as bad as Ravage's laughter. Fine. If he was going to insist on playing games, there was nothing to be gained by refusing to take part. “They are where we are born! They're . . . geological phenomena. The points where protomatter comes to the surface and interacts with . . . whatever's there. The reaction produces new forms, some of which become people.”

“So what is protomatter?”

“It's . . . I don't know the science! It's the raw stuff of the life, of _Cybertron_! A . . . technomechanical slurry. I heard it called that once. It's constantly transforming. Give it enough energy and the right template and it can become anything you want. A tool, a building, a person! Anything.”

“Enough energy . . .” Ravage hissed, “The right . . . template. That is what they say, isn't it?”

For a few cycles, that was all he said. The tunnel was still sloping. The further down they went, the more frequent the arches were and the more thickly coated in symbols they became. There was a change in the style as well. Megatron was able to pick out faces among the carvings. Crude but definitely faces.

“Have you ever heard the term 'Stable Well'?”

He scowled at the question. “No.”

“That does not surprise me. It is not used in public very often, even now. Time was, to speak the phrase would have brought accusations of heresy.”

“Why? What does it mean?”

“In the normal way of things, Wells are unstable. The protomatter can become anything and its tendency is to do just that. It takes special attention to keep it within the parameters that mean it can give birth to complex lifeforms. Left to its own devices, it would mutate into something else entirely. So the variables need to be reset from time to time.”

“By the Matrix.”

“Yes. By the Matrix and by the Prime. An arrangement that neatly ensures the supremacy of whoever holds that _illustrious_ office. It's become a self-serving truism that sentient life from the Wells requires the intervention of the Prime. They are inextricable from one another. Stable Wells give lie to that assumption.”

“Because they are _not_ unstable?” Megatron asked, interest piqued.

“Because they do not require the Matrix for stability. A Stable Well given enough energy will churn out sentient life without ever having felt the touch of Primus' One True Voice. Usually only one form of life and usually not very often or in great numbers but consistently and perpetually.”

“And that means, what? Presumably such Wells are rare. A fluke of geography. Why should that be heretical?”

“I have always admired your inability to think like a theologian. _Think about it_. Full life springing up without the Prime. Sparks that have never known the light of the Matrix! This was not something that sat well with a priesthood built on control of the means of reproduction. It had to be explained or expunged! Whichever was easier. The more generous among them decided that these 'Pits' were examples of Primus' beneficence. That the properties of these people were somehow divinely ordained to exist alongside the Matrix while not being of it. They were the minority. The orthodoxy condemned the products of Stable Wells as the vilest form of blasphemy, a corruption of Cybertron itself. One that needed to be eradicated.”

Despite himself Megatron was taken aback. “You mean –”

“There were wars,” Ravage said dismissively, “Crusades. You are right to assume that Stable Wells are rare. They certainly are now. And history is none the wiser, recorded as it was by that same orthodoxy. A very neat solution to such a challenging problem.” 

His mouth a tight line of distaste, Megatron nodded his understanding. “So does a Stable Well lie at the end of this tunnel then?”

“No.” The response was barely a noise at all. “To understand what _does_ , you need to know the history they wanted everyone to forgot. The history of the Quad Shiv Kirdan Dar.”

 

* * *

**Planetary Archive**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

“Which data would you like to retrieve?”

A wave of nostalgia came with the question. It had been far too long since Optrion had been to the Archive. Time was, he would have been there every chance he got, first to study up on medics of the past, after that to do his duty and ensure that information on the planets he visited was recorded for posterity. At some point, probably when he and Ratchet had patched things up enough to start spending off-duty time together again, those visits became less of a priority and then ceased altogether.

“I'd like to access political records from throughout Cybertron's history,” he told the diminutive blue mech in charge of the retrieval terminal, “Information on forms of government and . . . how they have looked after their people, I suppose. How they changed over time as well and what caused them to do so. I'm sorry,” he added, “I'm being a little vague, aren't I?”

“That is quite all right.” The archivist's angular visor pulsed a few times. “I can compile a collection of the major social-political shifts across all city-states since the First Era that should cover most of that information. Would you like me to limit the range?”

“No thank you. I can filter it myself later. Could I request the specific inclusion of as many first-hand accounts as possible?”

“Of course.” His visor pulsed again. “For this volume of information, we generally recommend utilising an external storage device.”

“I know,” Optrion said with a smile, producing a data slug, “Will this be sufficient?”

The archivist took the slug and interfaced with it. “I can compress most of it within these confines. However I will need to summarise some of the longer sequences.”

“That's fine. If you need to cut parts out, please do it from the older sections. I'm more interested in the mid to modern Eras.”

“Understood.” He placed the device into his console. “May I take your reason for wishing to access this data?”

Optrion hesitated. He was not entirely sure what to say. 'Because a rather odd Emirate made me start thinking about revolutions' did not sound like the sort of reason a Defence Directorate officer should place on record. “I'd like to better understand recent political upheaval and the effect it might have on my future duties.”

From the way the archivist looked at him, Optrion got the sudden and irrational impression that he was seeing straight through this half-truth. But if so he made no comment. Having dutifully entered the stated reason for the request, he stepped back a pace. “One moment please.” In a single fluid motion the mech transformed to computer block mode, locked into the archive mainframe and began the laborious process of collating Optrion's data.

 

* * *

**Below the Gemja Plains**

**Tidora Region**

**Cybertron**

 

“The Quad Shiv were born of a Stable Well. They are one of the oldest lines to have such origins. In many respects they were the most successful. They appear in some of the earliest records known to exist, from before the First Era. In some ways they might even be the reason Stable Wells came to have quite so many dark associations. Quad Shiv have always been fierce. Their renown as warriors fills the early accounts. It was said that to have them hunting you was to be stalked by a death as sure and swift as the Devourer itself. They were thought to have brought entire armies to their knees – and to never have been seen while doing so.

“It is definitely true that a quirk of their Well gifted them with unusual physical properties. Armour that could deflect almost all attempts to scan it. Joints capable of near silent movement. Senses keen enough to track someone from one side of the Polyhex foundries to the other. The Quad Shiv were the masters of night and the dark places. There were many reasons to fear them. So fear them many did.”

Ravage broke off as the tunnel abruptly opened on to a narrow bridge that soared over a chasm the bottom of which was beyond Megatron's sensor range. Warm air rushed up from below, thrown into strange currents by machinery pounding and sparking in the towering walls.

“The Quad Shiv were pursued in turn,” Ravage said, illuminated in fits and starts as they crossed the bridge, “Hounded and pursued all across Cybertron. A thousand small wars, a few master hunters against a world of pious hatred. It was not a conflict the Quad Shiv could hope to win in the long term. They still fought on. For as long as their Well remained hidden – and it was, so few were those that had ventured near it and survived – their line could continue. That was their advantage: they did not have to bow to the Primes to live on. And they were very good at fighting.

“But as I say, it could never have lasted forever. In time, their numbers were whittled down by misfortune and the sheer persistence of their foes. Eventually, they were backed into a corner, trapped on the very edge of extinction. At which point the Prime, in their _infinite_ wisdom, decided to be merciful.”

The bridge ended in a new tunnel, much the same as the first and just as dark. Ravage vanished back into invisibility.

“At the end of that last war, the one that was very nearly the end of my kind, the reigning Prime descended from their golden throne and called a halt to the battle. They approached the leader of the Quad Shiv with an offer. If they swore their service to the defence of Cybertron's highest pinnacle, the Prime would see to it that they were treated with the same respect and honour as any line touched by the Matrix. It was a fool's pact. An age of servitude to be afforded the simple right of existence. Yet what choice was there? It was that or annihilation.

“The Quad Shiv Kirdan Dar swore themselves into the service of the Prime. They became the personal bodyguards of whoever held the Matrix, forever at their side and watchful for all manner of threats. And the bargain was kept. The Quad Shiv were tolerated. For aeons, Primal blessing held off the ravings of all the Circuit-Masters who would condemn them. There was peace between the Stable and the Matrix-lit. It might even have been that the Quad Shiv gained the audio of the Primes. Certainly that was what was whispered in the halls of power, among those making their own bids for control of Cybertron's fate. The resentment remained whatever edicts prevented its expression. For all that the Quad Shiv were trusted with the lives of the Primes, they were never liked. Never welcomed as equals within the Temple. Oh, there were those who conquered their doubts and put aside such differences for the good of a unified world. And the world at large forgot the difference between themselves and the masters of night. A line in the service of the Prime was as good as a line that depended upon the Prime.

“So it went until the time of Guardian Prime. The powerful resenting, the people forgetting. The Quad Shiv, surviving.”

“Guardian. Sentinel's predecessor.”

“ _Yes_.” Just for an instant, Ravage's eyes flashed into view. “A wise and just mech who guided Cybertron into an age of great peace and prosperity. Just like _every_ Prime. He reigned for a hundred thousand stellar-cycles and like all his illustrious predecessors, he was guarded by members of the Quad Shiv. The silent watchers in his shadow.

"Until one day, one of them turned upon him and killed him.”

Megatron slammed to a halt. “The last Prime was _assassinated_?”

“History records it as a tragic accident. But history is full of lies. Even the 'truth' of the matter is unclear. They believed that Nightstalker turned upon Guardian and cut him down. Yet Nightstalker and the rest of the bodyguards did not survive the ensuing battle so who can really say. Whatever the reality, the accusation sounded loud through the Celestial Temple: the Quad Shiv had killed the Prime.”

Light was stealing into the passageway ahead of them, weak and grey but enough to cast Ravage into silhouette as he bounded about with exaggerated excitement.

“Imagine it! A civilised age, a time of peace – and the Prime murdered! Imagine the chaos, the confusion, the uproar! The perfect environment for all sorts of power-grabs. Half the cities on the High Council must have been trying to advance their own agendas at once, tripping over one another in the rush. And amongst all that mess, one faction seized its chance to make a return to the old days, when there were crusades in the name of Primus and those beyond the light of the Matrix were not tolerated to exist. They wanted to make a statement that would echo across all of Cybertron, one the new Prime might see and recognise as the work of the truly devoted. They wanted a holy revolution.”

They turned a corner and a doorway gaped before them, just tall enough for Megatron to enter without ducking. Ravage paused on the threshold, mouth stretched into a savage grimace. “Come see what their statement meant for the place of my birth. Come see what they did to Kirdan Dar.”

 

* * *

“ **The Kalis Concession”**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _Yep, you were right. Bang on the rivet.”_

Diatrion pulled a face. “That might be the worst news I've had all day.”

The hologram of Glitter cocked its head. _“Most people like being right, you know.”_

“Most people aren't being right about the Black Shadow interfering with relief supplies.”

“ _I'm only confirming the method used to get into the cases without damage. I'd have to examine the evidence in person to get you anything on who might have actually done the opening.”_

“All right, it's someone using a method that has been in the past used by Black Shadow operatives. Either way, it's not _good_ news.”

Glitter lifted a paw and tapped his jaw thoughtfully.  _“If you need me to come over there and help out, you're going to have a tough time convincing Tynllonn that he can spare me. He's gone a bit paranoid about the idea he's not getting his officers back.”_

“Understandable, I suppose. If it comes to it, I'm probably going to request a transfer so that I can stay here.”

“ _Really? Given what you just showed me, I can't say that they don't need competent investigators over there but I'd have thought you'd have preferred a city posting.”_

“It's not a question of preference. It's priorities. This place is nowhere near self-sufficient and the people here have nothing. They need all the help they can get and that's not going to change any time soon. I can be of more use here than in Tagen.”

“ _Can't argue with that I suppose. I just hate to see a good mind wasted for lack of stimulation.”_

“If the Black Shadow are trying to get a hold on the Concession, I'm going to have plenty to think about.”

“ _Too true –”_

The white quad stopped speaking and Diatrion thought for a moment that the communication had frozen. “Glitter?”

“ _Hmm? Oh, sorry. Distracted. Personal channel, private stuff – clan business, you know.”_

“Do you need to go attend to it?”

“ _I probably should, yeah. Sorry.”_

“No, that's fine. I should get back to work anyway. Thanks for the remote analysis.”

“ _Any time. Except when I'm busy or offline or something like that. Good luck with the good work, Investigator.”_

The hologram cut out. Diatrion flexed his arms, gathering his thoughts and wondering if any amount of luck would be enough. Probably not. Which was where the hard work came in. “Clutch?” he transmitted, “Grab Talainat and meet me at warehouse two. We need to check everything. Yes. _Everything_.”

 

* * *

**Kirdan Dar Birthing Well**

**Tidora Region**

**Cybertron**

 

Realisation came slowly. At first, Megatron just saw a large bowl-shaped cavern lit by the dim light coming from a hole high up in the slightly domed roof. He took in the details, studying the broken sections in the sloping walls, the statues of – presumably – different Quad Shiv, the . . . blast damage. Aged and muddled by time but definitely signs of multiple detonations. A sense of wrongness gnawed at his processors as he took another couple of steps inside. The symbols that decorated the tunnel were everywhere, carved or embossed on every surface that would take them, even across the scorch marks. All except at the very centre of the bowl. He peered down, trying to make out the black emptiness that seemed to be the focal point of the whole place. Was it some sort of portal or a way deeper beneath Cybertron's surface . . . ?

One of the 'statues' turned to look at him, dull green optics narrowing. Another rose sharply from its sitting position, tail scything out, ready for battle. All around Megatron, the Quad Shiv sprang awake, five, seven of them, all moving to bar his approach.

Ravage hissed and hummed and snapped his fangs together. He spoke to his brethren in a clicking language that Megatron only vaguely recognised. The quads listened suspiciously, one of them barking out questions as he circled around to bar the doorway. Ravage drew himself up proudly and his tail slapped the floor once. That apparently settled the argument because the guards drew back and allowed them to go on. Not one of them took their optics off Megatron though. Whatever accord Ravage had reached with his kin, it was tenuous at best.

All thoughts about how he might fight his way out vanished as they approached that central void and Megatron finally comprehended what he was looking at.

It had been a Birthing Well once. He could just make out the vents through which protomatter must have oozed its way up from Cybertron's core. Once, this middle point would have been submerged under an undulating silver tide. Though naturally occurring, the bowl must have been refined by generations of Quad Shiv into a place for their kind to be born in safety. Far beneath the Gemja Plains, reached by narrow tunnels and narrower bridges, all in darkness, they could have protected it from any attempt to destroy them at their source.

Almost any attempt, he mentally corrected, looking up at the ragged opening in the roof. The attackers must have drilled their way down and struck from above. He could track some of the pattern of the battle: the suppressing fire in all directions to scatter the defenders, the retaliation that went wide, the blast that came straight down into the very heart of the Well . . .

The vents were twisted and fused, at once melted and crushed. The entire centre of the Well was black from the heat of the assault. It had buckled and distorted, precious minerals seared into undifferentiated slag. Destruction had been absolute. There was not even a trace of protomatter left.

Megatron dropped to one knee. Whatever his feelings on the genuflections of the Circuit-Masters and the Iaconians and all the others who devoted themselves to stories and unprovable beliefs, this was a sight that could not go unmarked. He brought his arm across his chest in salute, the gesture feeling utterly inadequate.

“There was no warning,” Ravage said, drawing up to Megatron's side, “No call for surrender. They rained fire on us from above and burnt away our future. The Quad Shiv fought and killed but it was not enough. There were too few here to make a difference. Fortunate, really, or the whole line might have died that night. As it is, we simply live with the certainty of our end. The Quad Shiv are no more. We just haven't stopped moving yet.”

“This is . . . _unspeakable_.”

“The treachery of it was. No less for what happened afterwards.”

Megatron wrenched his optics from the dead Well to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“The conspirators struck when they did because the new Prime – the new _Sentinel_ Prime – was a noted scholar and acolyte of the ways of the Covenants. He believed that all life existed in the designs of Primus, regardless of how involved the Matrix was in its creation. He denied any distinction on the basis of Well or form. A return to an older, harsher way was anathema to him. They wished to challenge him directly, to show that they were willing to punish those who had murdered the Prime when his own callow successor would not. They were calling him out to battle and would have called on every city to stand with them and remake Cybertron in their image. And the Prime . . . did nothing. He _refused_ to face them and instead had them quietly discredited. What happened here . . . the destruction of the Quad Shiv . . . it was hidden. Covered up and deleted from the records. The few protoforms that survived the massacre were placed in stasis and scattered to other Wells where they might, _in time_ , be integrated into society.”

“You?”

“Me. And others. A small final generation living with the knowledge that the mighty Prime cowered from battle and robbed us of any retribution we might have visited upon on our killers! The great and noble lover of all, the scholar with all his fine words – and in first day in office, he _comprised_ it all for the sake of keeping everything as it was! Better to ignore the savaging of his every belief then risk _change_!”

Optics burning, Ravage sprang forward and stood between Megatron and the Well. “You needed to see this. You need to know how right you are. You want Sentinel to step in, to act and do something to save our world – but that's never been his nature! He  _reacts_ , sometimes, if it will not cause too much trouble! He's been that way right from the start! Look at this! Look at what happened here! How many times have you wished you had an army like me at your side in battle? You could have had that! Cybertron could have had that! That is the tragedy here! Don't look at this as some  _blasphemy_ – look at it as the strategic loss I know you can see that it was! How would you have reacted to that? What would you have done to those responsible? Because whatever your answer, know that Sentinel Prime was too much of a coward to do it. And he  _still is_ .”

It was the observatory all over again. Megatron was looking down at the great machine of Cybertron stretched out before him in its ever-shifting glory. Yet now he saw what he had not seen all those many, many stellar-cycles ago. The discord. The broken components grinding against one another. The rust at the core of the system. He had been fighting the battle in front of him, facing down the problems it threw in his face without really understanding where they were coming from. Now he did. The prevaricating politicians. The obstructive bureaucrats. The blind priests. And yes, the cowards. For what were the Supreme Commanders with all their caution and deference if not that? They were afraid to do their jobs because of what the Council might say and the Council was afraid of what the state governments might do and the state governments were afraid of their people or the elites that controlled them or simply of being left behind. And the Prime was afraid of it all.

That was Cybertron. The reality behind the ideal he fought for. Had the Cybertron of his imagination ever existed? The greater whole he'd clung to as he'd clawed his way out of the pits of Tarn – was that really all an illusion?

Clearly it was. Such wastefulness as now stared him in the face could never have happened in the Cybertron of his mind. On that Cybertron, Vos and Tarn would never have been destroyed. The Defence Directorate would be strong and unhindered, the governments sane and efficient, the Council an effective go-between. And the Prime? The Prime would have the strength to stand for what was right and would never compromise for the sake of ancient traditions and superficial peace.

That was a Cybertron that could stand forever against whatever the universe could throw at it. A Cybertron for which he would be proud to go to war.

Elation fired his systems. Ever since returning home from Dromedon, ever since the fiasco on Anska, Megatron had felt in deepest spark that he was not fighting the right enemy. Every anarchist or Tarnian soldier he felled, every battle fought against his own kind – each landed as a blow on his own skin. Indisputably wrong. Now at long last he saw the face of his true enemy.

It wore gold.

“It cannot stand,” he whispered.

Ravage leaned closer in eager anticipation. “Megatron?”

“This waste. This weakness. It cannot stand. I fight for Cybertron and anything that does not make Cybertron strong is my _enemy_. So hear this, Rah Quad Shiv Kirdan Dar: I declare war on all of them. The Council. The politicians. The _Prime_. It's time to take our world back from them. It's time to make it what it _should be_.” He turned his head and looked Ravage straight in the eye. “Are you with me?”

The quad smiled viciously. “Commander, I have been waiting for you to make that declaration since I first grasped what kind of mech you are. I am with you to the end. We all are.”

And from all corners of the broken Well, the Quad Shiv raised their voices in a triumphant battle cry.


	14. New Dawn

**Kirdan Dar Birthing Well**

**Tidora Region**

**Cybertron**

 

Megatron sat for a long while by the blackened pit. The guardians prowled around him for a few deca-cycles, still wary of his presence. They did not doubt Ravage's assurances of Megatron's good faith, nor the Commander's own words but it was hard for them to welcome any outsider. He was surprised that they had not objected more violently to the intrusion in the first place.

Eventually they settled down and returned to their vigile. Ravage walked the edge of the Well a few times, absorbed in the details of the place he should have been able to call home. He knew every scratch and buckled panel intimately and the damage still twisted like a blade in an open wound. In the dim reaches of his memory he could see flickering impressions of the attack. Garbled, disjointed images of flame and death. They were fuel for a vengeance that would never come and the futility of that made the blade twist all the harder.

Of course now, he thought with satisfaction as he took his place at Megatron's side, that was all going to change.

His Commander was as relaxed as Ravage had ever seen him. Finally declaring aloud what he had surely known all along had transformed him. All the pent up rage and twitching exasperation was gone, leaving him calm and composed and ready to wage war. One hand ran across the symbols embossed into the curve of the Well, aimlessly tracing line after line, over and over. Other than that, his body was still.

Even at rest, he exuded power. One of the things that had struck Ravage when they first met was how much of his warrior nature radiated from him. Looking at Megatron there was never any doubt as to what he was physically capable of. But that was true of many mechs. It was his mind that others did not see. His spark. _That_ was what was going to save the world.

“We will need an army.”

“We are a match for any army,” Ravage replied proudly.

Megatron grunted. “A handful cannot seize an entire planet no matter how capable.”

“There are surely many who would rally to our cause, given the chance.”

“There are many who would rally to _any_ cause. I don't want an army of chaos worshippers and malcontents. I need those who are skilled in war – soldiers, not rioters. This won't be the usual slaughter – I cannot just unleash devastation on Iacon and hope for the best!”

“Then you will need more than soldiers.”

“Obviously! Spies, saboteurs, infiltrators – slag! Engineers, medics, _administrators_! Everything I tear down will need to be replaced.”

“Not just an army then.”

“No. We need to rally all of Cybertron's people to our cause. To give them something better to believe in than the creed of stupidity they have been instructed with all their lives.”

“We will need a symbol.”

Meagtron frowned at Ravage. “Trivial. That's not what's important.”

“No. But you already know what the cause is. A strong Cybertron cleared of all the dross of the past. But you can't march behind a cause alone. Every army needs a standard. Every belief needs its icons.”

He reached up to the Defence Directorate insignia on his chest. “Maybe so.” His hand fell back and brushed once more against the characters on the Well.

“What are these?” he asked after a couple of cycles, “These symbols? I feel as though I've seen them before but I cannot say where.”

“They are the Language of the Masks. An ancient form of writing. You probably saw them when you were birthed from Tava Szenda.”

“What do they say?”

“Exaltations of Cybertron's beneficence. Histories of my people. Blessings. It's all very mystic. We are free of the Prime, not of religion.”

Megatron looked thoughtfully around at the curving lines of script. “How might we express ourselves in this language, then? I assume these 'masks' express concepts.”

“They do. Often with layers of meaning. It's a very . . . voluminous form of communication. There are different interpretations depending on context.” Ravage craned his neck then loped a few strides around the Well. “As for saying what we want . . .” He drew a claw around a particular sequence. “How about this? _Mal'ignus rod'imus maximo opti'mus aut'obot decep'ti'con._ 'In our darkest time, hope and the future shall be heralded by the mighty defender and the perfect warrior.' I don't know if that was meant as prophecy or just an aphorism but . . . it has a certain ring to it, no?”

Crossing to where he stood, Megatron examined the phrase. “Perfect warrior?”

“The greatest warrior. The final soldier. The last warrior Cybertron will ever need. I suppose when this was carved, the artist imagined that meant the Quad Shiv.” Ravage tapped the pointed symbol with its narrowed triangular eyes. “Honestly, I think it sounds more like you.”

“Hah!” Megatron's amusement faded quickly. “We will both need to be 'decep-ti-cons' for what is to come.”

“Then perhaps that is exactly what we must become.”

“Decep-ti-cons,” he repeated, straightening and folding his arms, “Perfect warriors. Hn. Why not? Let us be the first Decepticons.” He looked straight up at the hole in the roof, through which a far distant sunrise was filtering down. The light picked out his silver armour in pale, glinting orange, all the hard edges glittering like blades. His face was full of the future. “The first of many.”

 

**End of Act 5  
**

 

* * *

 

**Cast List – Act 5**

 

**Name (Nickname) – Function – Full designation [Name – Base Form – Template – Birthing Well]**

 

 **Sentinel Prime** () – Prime of Cybertron

 **Xaaron** () – Emirate of Nova Cronum – _Xa Mech Aron Tava Szenda_

 **Tomaandi** () – Emirate of Praxus – _Toma Mech Andi Verous Klyda_

 **Traachon** () – Emirate of Iacon – _Traac Mech Hon Ias Zar_

 **Davinrav** () – Emirate of Prodium – _Davin Avir Rav Kelssa Corvis_

 **Novarus** () – Emirate of Tyrest – _Nov_ _Hexe_ _Arus Salba Tryn_

 **Zoricald** () – Emirate of Kalis – _Zori Mech Cald Mitora Keldon_

 **Savatemb** () – Emirate of Hexima – _Savat Quad Emb Temla Corvis_

**Yiranix** () – Emirate of Uraya –  _ Yira Mech Nix  _ _ Alba Klyda _

**Graviitus** () – Former Emirate of Vos – _Gravi Mech Itus Lyivas Keldon_

 **Haacano** () – Former Emirate of Tarn **–** _Haac Mech Ano Tava Szenda_

 **Elita** () Temple Guard Commander

 

 **Optrion** () – Defence Directorate Lieutenant Commander – _Op Mech Trion Novus Zar_

 **Megatron** () – Defence Directorate Field Commander – _Mega Mech Tron Tava Szenda_

Rahshiv ( **Ravage** ) – Defence Directorate Lieutenant – _Rah Quad Shiv Temla Corvis_

Toiinat ( **Ratchet** ) – Defence Directorate Medic – _Toi Mech Inat Cosa Hexus_

Zerinat ( **Ironhide** ) – Defence Directorate Trooper – _Zer Mech Inat Cosa Hexus_

Hialuxx ( **Trailbreaker** ) – Defence Directorate Trooper – _Hial Mech Uxx Roda Zar_

 **Jaantanon** () – Defence Directorate Field Commander – _Jaanta_ _Mech Non Oscot Veeda_

 **Hevacce** () – Defence Directorate Squad Leader – _Hev Mech Acce Kolva Szenda_

Ashirar ( **Quasar** ) – Defence Directorate Cavalier – _Ash Feme Irar Novus_ _Iytl_

( **Aerodyne** ) – Air Guardian

( **Contrail** ) – Air Guardian Commander

 **Vieuxuun** () – Defence Directorate Field Commander – _Vieux_ _Mech Uun Novus Hexus_

Deoparl ( **Bombshock** ) – Defence Directorate Trooper – _Deo Mech Parl Tava Chemil_

Kedoparl ( **Slalom** ) – Defence Directorate Trooper – _Kedo Feme Parl Tava Chemil_

Miriodaron ( **Sprint** ) – Defence Directorate Cavalier – _Mirio Mech Aron Roda Zar_

 

 **Grandus** () – Defence Directorate Supreme Commander – _Grand Mech Us Kolva Szenda_

 **Viktoleo** (Victory Leo) – Defence Directorate Supreme Commander – _Vikto Mech Leo Lekto Zar_

Torlaet ( **Deftwing** ) – Defence Directorate Supreme Commander – _Torl Mech Aet Lyivas Keldon_

 

 **Sarristec** () – Former Lord of Vos – _Saris Mech Tec Lyivas Keldon_

 **Myyoc** () – Former Lord of Vos – _Myy Quad Oc Tava Corvis_

Tesauun ( **Hot House** ) – Refugee – _Tesau Mech Un Lyvias Keldon_

 **Cashcoui** () - Refugee – _Cash Mech Coui Lyvias Keldon_

 **Cerrebos** (Captain Ci-114) – Tarnian soldier – _Cerre Mech Bos Tava Szenda_

 

 **Deca Magnus** () – Civic Guard Supreme Commander

 **Diatrion** – Civic Guard Investigator – _Dia Mech Trion Novus Zar_

Chevuxx ( **Clutch** ) – Civic Guard Constable – _Chev Mech Uxx Roda Zar_

 **Talainat** () – Civic Guard Investigator – _Tala Mech Inat Cosa Hexus_

_Relshiv (_ _**Glitter** _ _) – Civic Guard Pathologist – Rel Quad Shiv Temla Corvis_

 

Maszadep ( **Nightbeat** ) – Freelance Investigator – _Masz Mech Adep Novus Keldon_

 

 **Gauun** () – Decal Designer – _Gau Mech Un Verous Klyda_

 **Aratron** (Wheels) – Body-shop Worker – _Ara Mech Tron Verous Klyda_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! The conclusion of this act brings us to more or less the halfway point in terms of content. I anticipate the next two acts being a similar kind of length, following by another shorter act, then one more of indeterminate length.
> 
> I have started writing the next act but I haven't got very far with it yet, unfortunately. Still, I know what needs to happen, it's just a matter of planning it out and slotting all the pieces together.
> 
> So until then, thank you very much for reading!


End file.
